THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FAR   FROM   TO-DAY 


FAR   FROM   TO-DAY 


BY    GERTRUDE    HALL 


I.  TRISTIANE 

II.  SYLVANUS 

III.  THE  SONS  OF  PHILEMON 

IV.  THEODOLIND 
V.  SERVIROL 

VI.  SHEPHERDS 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS 
1892 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


AU  rightt  reserved. 


J&ntocrsttg  $rrss: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


PS 
IW5 


.Sisters* 


CONTENTS. 


I.     TRISTIANE 9 

II.     STLVANUS 63 

III.  THE  SONS  OF  PHILEMON ,     .  91 

IV.  THEODOLIND 147 

V.     SERVIROL .     ,     .  191 

VI.  SHEPHERDS       .,.„.,.,,.  251 


TRISTIANE. 


FAR  FROM  TO-DAY. 


TEISTIANE. 

"  T  T  7E  are  merrymakers  on  our  way  to  the  capital, 
V  V  whither  we  are  betaking  us  for  the  coronation 
feasts.  I  am  Triflor,"  said  the  leader  to  the  host,  who 
stood  still  hesitating  in  the  doorway.  "  Surely  you 
have  heard  of  jolly  Triflor,  blithe  Triflor.  And  these 
(come  forward,  my  children !  —  my  lord  the  host 
of  this  fine  inn  is  going  to  give  us  all  a  shelter  for 
the  night,  because  he  knows  that  it  is  cold  sleeping 
under  the  stars  in  the  decline  of  the  year,  and  he  is 
a  good  gentleman  who  would  not  have  the  harm 
less  amusing  folks  suffer)  —  and  these,  sir,  are  (for 
ward,  children !)  Hatto,  who  eats  knives  and  smacks 
his  lips  over  them,  who  can  balance  straws  on  the 
end  of  his  nose,  and  make  faces  so  droll,  the  sober 
water  on  reflecting  them  is  forced  to  break  into  a 
laugh ;  Jarl,  who  can  hurl  the  big  rocks,  whom 
you  may  bind  with  new  ropes  if  you  will,  and  — 
eric  !  crac  !  a  little  stiffening  of  his  massive  thews, — 
he  is  free  again  ;  Kahilde  and  Kabiorg,  the  matchless 
dancers,  —  so  light  of  foot  you  can  afterward  cook 
in  their  sound  shells  the  eggs  upon  which  they  have 


10  TRISTIANE. 

trodden  ;  Tristiane,  the  woman  who  tells  the  truth  ; 
and  Ib,  tamer  of  wild  beasts  — " 

As  he  spoke  their  names,  the  members  of  that 
motley  company  stepped  into  the  large,  low,  smoky 
room,  lighted  by  pine  boughs  that  were  burning 
fiercely  on  the  rough  stone-hearth :  Hatto,  the  juggler, 
slim  as  an  ill-conditioned  reed,  with  a  long,  pointed, 
humorous  nose,  and  a  hungry  expression  that  lent 
verisimilitude  to  the  leader's  report  of  his  appetite 
for  such  food  even  as  knives  ;  the  strong  man,  short 
and  bow-legged,  with  hairy  wrists  and  a  warlike  de 
meanor,  yet  with  eyes  more  mild  than  a  calf's ;  the 
dancing  sisters,  pretty  and  travel-stained  and  weary, 
huddled  together  in  a  single  cloak  to  keep  one 
another  warm  ;  Tristiane,  the  woman  who  told  the 
truth,  —  the  host  looked  wonderingly,  as  she  entered, 
at  the  great  form  in  the  dull  scarlet  garb,  with  the 
black  wolf-skins  hanging  from  her  shoulders. 

"  But  what  is  that  ?  "  he  asked  doubtfully  of  the 
new  apparition  on  the  threshold. 

"  That,"  explained  Triflor,  "  is  the  tamer,  and  that 
which  he  leads  is  the  tamed!' 

The  host  leaped  backward  in  the  air  as  he  rec 
ognized  for  a  lion  the  strange  animal  staring  at 
him  with  stern,  yellow  eyes  from  the  dusk  beyond 
the  doorway. 

"  Out  of  my  house  ! "  he  cried,  possessed  with  a 
wild  dismay.  "  Away  from  my  door !  Hold  on  to 
the  beast,  —  chain  him  up  ! " 

"  Oh,  he  is  very,  very  tame  ;  is  it  not  so,  Ib  ? "  said 
Triflor,  with  a  smile  calculated  to  disarm.  "  Do  not 
get  angry  ;  Hatto  might  tickle  his  nose  with  his  straw, 


TRISTIANE.  11 

and  he  would  only  waggle  his  tail.  Ib,  put  your 
hand  in  the  beast's  mouth ;  you  see,  he  is  as  gentle 
as  a  lamb.  He  was,  indeed,  very  wild,  but  our  brave 
Ib  has  entirely  subdued  him.  He  will  lie  quietly 
under  the  table  while  we  eat  our  supper." 

"  There  is  a  solid  iron  ring  out  in  the  empty  ox- 
stall,"  said  the  host,  firmly  unheedtul  of  Triflor's  de 
monstrations  ;  "  he  must  go  there.  The  tamer  must 
keep  guard  over  him,  and  the  door  must  be  safely 
barred.  Snorro,  show  the  man  into  the  stall ; "  and 
with  anxious  precision  he  shut  the  door  upon  lion- 
tamer  and  lion. 

Ib  turned  dully  from  the  door  without  a  murmur. 

The  warm  red  glare  of  the  pine  logs  suddenly  cut 
off  from  the  twilight  air  made  it  seem  darker  and 
colder  than  before.  He  could  hardly  distinguish 
where  he  stood,  —  that  dark  outline  somewhat  resem 
bled  the  old  baggage-wagon  they  took  turns  at  drag 
ging  through  the  day  ;  that  yonder  might  be  a  well, 
and  that  other  a  horse-trough,  —  where  was  the 
ox-stall  ? 

"  This  way ! "  he  heard  a  young  voice  at  a  little 
distance  from  him.  He  stumbled  in  the  direction 
whence  came  the  sound,  drawing  the  lion  after  him. 

He  came  to  a  covered  enclosure  that  had  long, 
wide  openings  at  about  the  height  of  his  shoulder. 
By  contrast  with  the  pitchy  darkness  of  the  stall, 
those  spans  of  open  night  appeared  a  milky  blue-gray. 

"  The  ring  is  on  your  right,"  said  the  voice,  still  dis 
tant,  but  in  another  direction.  "  Fasten  the  door,  and 
I  will  bring  you  some  hay  to  lay  on  the  ground." 

In  a  few  minutes  an  armful  of  hay  came  down 


12  TRISTIANE. 

upon  his  head.  Looking  up,  he  was  able  to  distin 
guish  against  the  sky  a  wild-haired,  boyish  outline. 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  said  the  voice,  in  a  tone  of 
deep  interest. 

"  He  has  no  name."  Then,  with  a  sudden  bitter 
vehemence :  "  It  is  a  mortification  of  the  spirit  to  be 
called  by  a  name  not  yours ;  and  as  I  do  not  know 
what  those  other  fierce  kings,  his  brothers,  used  to 
call  him  in  their  language,  I  leave  him  uninsulted 
by  a  lesser  appellation." 

"  Now,  me,"  said  the  boy,  not  quite  understanding, 
"  when  they  want  me  they  say,  '  Snorro !  Sriorro,' 
they  say,  '  get  up  !  Snorro,  go  to  work  ! '  What  I 
ask  you  is,  when  you  want  him  to  come  —  " 

"No  need  to  want.  I  have  him  at  the  end  of  a  chain. 
Go,  child.  Leave  us  alone.  The  lion  wishes  to  sleep." 

"  I  will  bring  him  a  marrow-bone."  He  scrambled 
down  the  wall,  and  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  died 
away  in  the  night. 

Ib  spread  the  straw  on  the  cold  ground  and  sat 
down  upon  it,  so  that  the  lion's  great,  heavy  head 
rested  upon  his  knees.  The  yellow  eyes  glowed  at 
him  in  the  darkness.  He  passed  his  thin  hands 
through  the  thick,  rough  mane,  clutching  at  it  with  a 
fierce  caress.  "  They  have  turned  us  away,"  he  said, 
talking  in  incoherent  murmurs  to  the  brute,  "  because 
we  look  so  dangerous  and  so  bad,  my  friend.  They 
are  afraid  of  us.  They  do  not  know  how  cold  and  sad 
and  sick  we  are.  They  say,  'See  the  treacherous  eye; 
see,'  they  say,  '  the  gleaming  fangs.'  It  would  seem 
they  wished  to  mock  us,  —  but  they  cannot  know 
that,  with  the  will,  we  have  scarcely  the  power  to 


TRISTIANE.  13 

attack  the  meanest  cur  that  lives,  we  are  so  weary,  so 
cold,  so  homesick,  so  fallen,  —  alas  !  so  fallen. .  Ugh, 
the  loathsome  world !  the  loathsome  people  !  How 
they  laugh  and  shout  at  us  when  we  come  before  them 
in  fool's  gear,  led  in  derision  by  a  slender  flower-chain, 
poor,  despised,  discrowned  royalty  !  They  cannot  see 
it  burn,  then,  in  the  once  proudly  flashing  eye,  — 
blear  to-day,  —  the  remembrance  of  times  when  their 
faces  had  blanched  with  terror  at  the  sound  of  a  cer 
tain  mighty  voice,  when  their  feet  had  been  so  bound 
with  fear  they  could  not  have  stirred  from  the  path. 
Now  they  say  to  us,  '  Come,'  and  we  come ; '  Go,'  and 
we  go.  They  lift  an  impatient  hand  to  strike  us,  and 
we  lower  our  lessened  heads,  submitting,  —  we  are 
so  frozen  and  so  forlorn.  We  have  not  strength  now 
to  rebel,  no,  nor  spirit  to  resist  —  " 

He  put  his  arms  round  the  lion,  who  was  shiver 
ing  with  cold,  and  buried  his  face  on  the  shaggy 
head.  He  felt  a  warm,  moist  touch  repeated  slowly 
again  and  again  on  his  cheek,  streaked  with  burning 
tears.  Thus  they  cowered  silently  together. 

The  dark  ether  kindled  slowly  with  tremulous 
points  of  fire.  But  what  dim  light  entered  the  stall 
scarcely  served  to  distinguish  the  formless  mass  of 
man  and  lion  closed  in  a  monstrous  embrace.  Heavy, 
broken  sighs  alone  interrupted  the  silence,  and  occa 
sionally  peals  of  distant  laughter  ringing  from  the 
inn,  or  a  few  notes,  louder  than  the  rest,  from  Triflor's 
shrill  instrument. 

"  He  is  piping  for  the  wenches  to  dance,"  said  Ib  to 
himself ;  and  at  the  sound  arose  in  his  mind  a  clear 
image  of  the  whole  scene,  —  Triflor  sweating  over 


14  TRISTIANE. 

the  music,  with  cheeks  expanded  to  bursting,  beating 
the  measure  with  one  flat  foot;  the  girls  dancing, 
with  slender  arms  intertwined,  weariness  lending  a 
certain  languid  grace  to  their  movements ;  Hatto 
looking  on,  leaning  against  the  wall  in  his  favorite 
attitude,  one  spindle  leg  across  the  other,  his  elbows 
pointed  out  jauntily  from  his  hips,  his  head  thrown 
back,  his  face  distorted  in  a  gleeful  grimace  that 
exposed  all  his  sharp,  uneven  teeth ;  Jarl  in  a  cor 
ner,  diligently  pulling  at  his  stiff  beard  to  keep  him 
self  awake,  and  nodding  notwithstanding;  the  host 
and  inn-people  in  ecstasies  of  delight  over  the  un 
usual  entertainment ;  Suorro,  quite  forgetful  of  mar 
row-bones  and  the  like,  holding  his  sides  at  Hatto's 
facial  pranks ;  and  Tristiane  —  the  woman  from  the 
mountains  ?  —  he  could  not  place  her  in  the  scene 
his  vivid  imagination  painted.  He  had  not  known 
her  long  enough  to  be  sure,  without  seeing,  what  her 
part  would  be  in  the  merry  gathering.  Perhaps  she 
was  watching  the  fun  and  dancing,  listening  to  Tri- 
flor's  jests,  without  smiling.  He  had  not  yet  seen 
her  smile,  and  could  only  picture  her  face  as  wearing 
a  look  of  calm  wonder,  or  less  than  wonder,  perhaps, 
—  calm  curiosity ;  her  eyes,  used  to  resting  upon 
dark  mountain  outlines  and  deep  fir-forests  swaying 
in  the  north  wind,  and  turbulent  mountain  streams, 
expressing  mild  interest,  but  scarcely  amusement,  at 
such  antics.  Or  yet,  perhaps,  with  as  calm  disregard 
of  the  noisy  proceedings,  she  had  turned  from  them, 
and  sat  gazing  at  the  fire  that  flung  her  great  majestic 
shadow  upon  wall  and  ceiling. 

Ib  drew  from  his  satchel  a  piece  of  dark  bread 


TRISTIANE.  15 

and  offered  it  to  the  lion,  who  sniffed  at  it  languidly, 
and  refused  it.  He  bit  at  it  himself,  but  it  seemed 
too  bitter  food.  He  restored  it  to  the  satchel,  and 
once  more  pillowed  his  head  on  the  lion's. 

Gradually,  with  the  course  of  hours,  the  merry 
sounds  from  the  inn  became  less,  then  ceased  alto 
gether,  and  a  deep  stillness  held  the  night. 

Ib,  wearied  out  with  a  long  day's  march,  slum 
bered  restlessly,  waking  every  now  and  then  with  a 
start,  and  wondering  wildly  where  he  might  be.  Was 
that  a  dungeon  in  which  he  lay,  awaiting  death  ?  At 
the  relief  remembrance  brought,  beads  of  cold  sweat 
stood  on  his  brow.  He  tried  to  keep  awake  to  avoid 
the  horror  of  dreams,  but  the  weight  of  excessive 
physical  fatigue  drew  down  his  lids  in  spite  of  his 
endeavor.  He  had  finally  fallen  into  a  deeper  sleep, 
and  was  wholly  unconscious  when  a  soft  golden  light 
dawned  and  grew  slowly  upon  the  upper  portion  of 
the  wall  and  the  rough  beams  over  his  head,  lending 
each  jutting  edge  a  distinct  dark  shadow.  A  cock 
somewhere,  mistaking  the  sudden  light  for  the  dawn, 
crowed  lustily.  At  the  shrill  sound  Ib  started  guilt 
ily,  as  Peter  may  have  done,  and  lay  motionless, 
trembling.  His  fears  had  somewhat  subsided,  and 
he  dared  to  stir  a  little,  —  the  rustling  of  the  straw 
comforted  him,  —  as  he  lay  wondering  at  the  dim 
glory  overhead,  when  he  thought  to  hear  a  voice 
speaking  his  name  :  "  Ib  !  Ib  !  —  " 

He  did  not  answer.  His  heart  burned  and  quiv 
ered  within  him. 

"  Ib,"  said  the  voice  once  more.  Then  again,  after 
a  pause,  "  Ib,  are  you  cold  ? " 


16  TRISTIANE. 

Reassured,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  out  into 
the  night. 

A  late  half-moon  had  just  risen  above  the  low 
level  of  the  horizon,  and  hung  there,  a  great,  dull, 
golden  jewel.  Its  rays  touched  and  brightened  faintly 
one  side  of  the  figure  that  was  standing  without ;  but 
the  face  of  it  was  completely  in  the  shade.  Still, 
from  their  great  shadowy  sockets  Ib  could  feel  the 
unseen  eyes  of  Tristiane  fixed  upon  him. 

"I  came  to  bring  you  that,"  —  she  reached  him 
the  black  wolf-skins. 

"  You  are  thanked,"  said  Ib,  receiving  them.  "  Ib 
is  not  ungrateful." 

"  Why  do  you  tell  me,"  she  asked  quietly,  "  that 
your  name  is  Ib?  Ib  is  not  your  name." 

At  the  unexpected  words  Ib  fell  back  a  pace, 
paling  in  the  dark.  "You  are  mistaken,"  he  said, 
with  dry  lips  that  almost  refused  their  office,  "  I  am 
indeed  so  called." 

"  Why  will  you  lie  ? "  said  Tristiane. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Ib  hear!  noth 
ing  but  his  heart  hammering  in  his  ears.  "  Do  you 
know,"  he  asked  finally,  in  a  hoarse,  tremulous  whis 
per,  "  what  my  name  is  ?  Speak  low,  —  in  charity." 

"  No,"  said  Tristiane.  "  I  know  only  this,  that  you 
are  not  what  you  would  appear.  I  know,  poor  soul, 
how  wretched  and  heavy-laden  you  are.  Your  shift 
ing  eyes  and  hood  drawn  closely  over  your  ashen 
face  have  told  their  story  to  me,  —  and  your  heavy 
footsteps,  and  voice  without  ring.  You  are  too  hum 
ble,  too  patient  of  blows,  to  be  merely  the  low  churl 
you  seem.  The  sorrow  I  read  in  your  eyes  is  too 


TRISTIANE.  17 

great  for  a  contemptible  soul.  What  have  you  to 
hide  ?  My  heart  has  cried  out  for  pity  at  sight  of 
you.  I  have  yearned  to  assist  you.  Ease  your  soul 
of  its  secret  to  me.  Tristiane,  who  never  lies,  gives 
you  her  faith,  in  face  of  all  the  holy  stars,  that  no 
harm  shall  come  to  you  through  her,  but  that  the 
burden  that  crushes  you  shall  be  made  lighter  by 
her  helping  you  to  bear." 

"  Go  your  way,"  cried  Ib,  in  hot,  frightened  excite 
ment.  "  What  have  you  to  do  with  me  ?  I  did  not! 
call  you,  —  you  are  a  stranger.  You  do  not  even 
seem  one  like  me,  but  of  a  greater  and  goodlier  race. 
Go  your  way,  go  your  way  ! " 

And  then,  unaccountably,  as  he  looked  at  her,  it 
seemed  as  though  on  the  utter  darkness  of  his  soul 
a  door  had  been  suddenly  opened,  beyond  which 
shone  a  little  light.  Bewildered  with  a  tremulous 
joy  at  the  bare  thought  of  even  such  partial  release 
from  the  tenebrous  desolation  that  surrounded  him, 
"  Wait,  wait ! "  he  cried,  as  she  turned  slowly  to  go. 
With  wonderful  agility  he  climbed  the  wall  and 
leaped  over  it,  and  stood  at  her  side.  He  clung  to 
her  hand.  "  Your  pity  has  prevailed,"  he  said.  "  There 
is  something  in  your  face  that  calls  for  perfect  trust. 
I  am  impelled  to  tell  you,  woman  known  one  day, 
what  through  the  changes  of  many  moons  I  have 
jealously  hidden  from  the  very  air  of  heaven  —  " 

Then,  struck  by  a  sudden  torturing  thought,  he 
broke  short  and  dropped  her  hand.  "  Alas  ! "  he  cried 
dolorously,  "  but  even  you  will  shrink  away  from  me 
when  I  tell  you  of  the  blood  upon  my  hands." 

"  No,"  said  Tristiane.     "  I  knew  of  it." 

2 


18  TRIST1ANE. 

"  Then  "  —  he  again  seized  her  hand  —  "  come  with 
me  out  of  the  moon."  He  drew  her  hurriedly  toward 
the  shadow  of  the  ox-stall.  As  they  crossed  the 
moonlit  space,  their  shadows  fell  in  strange  con 
trast  on  the  dark  earth,  —  one  so  simply  drawn  and 
large ;  the  other  so  small  and  bent,  with  crooked 
knees,  and  a  fantastic  head  sunk  deep  between  the 
shoulders. 

"  My  name,"  said  Ib,  almost  in  her  ear,  "  is  not  Ib, 
as  you,  who  carry  out  the  prophecy  of  ancient  sagas, 
were  aware  as  soon  as  my  lying  lips  pronounced  the 
word.  I  —  am  Magnus  Magnusson  —  "  He  stopped, 
breathing  hard.  Then  he  went  on  more  rapidly. 
"  That  name,  all  unknown  to  you,  is  not  so  in  the 
capital  to  which  our  steps  bring  us  daily  nearer. 
When  you  are  there,  you  will,  no  doubt,  hear  it  often 
enough  spoken,  —  I  do  not  know  whether  more  in 
horror  or  contempt.  Some  one  will  point  out  to  you 
the  splendid  lions  hewn  in  stone  on  the  steps  of  the 
king's  palace,  and  say,  '  Those  were  made  by  Mag 
nus,  son  of  Magnus,'  then,  turning  from  them,  will 
tell  you  a  story  of  fame  turned  to  infamy.  But  you 
will  not  believe  me  as  evil  as  they  make  me,  —  only 
so  weak,  so  much  weaker  than  they  could  conceive ! 

"  You  see,  I  was  poor,  obscure,  cutting  stone  for 
miserable  bread,  when  there  rose  in  me,  a  low-born 
youth  with  nothing  but  a  high-sounding  name,  a 
passionate  thirst  for  honor  and  ease,  and  the  com 
panionship  of  the  great,  to  whom  I  looked  up  as  to 
bright  stars.  Looking  back  on  those  days  of  my 
earliest  dreams  of  glory,  I  try  to  think  there  was 
something  generous,  something  not  wholly  ignoble 


TRISTIANE.  19 

in  me ;  but  I  do  not  know,  —  I  do  not  know.  Inch 
by  inch,  steadily  I  rose,  by  the  bare  strength  of  a 
sleepless  ambition.  It  was  not  easy  for  me,  but  I 
never  ceased  one  hour  from  the  whole  effort  of  body 
and  soul.  From  the  common  stone,  finally,  I  made 
the  perfect  things  you  shall  perhaps  see.  I  gazed 
through  the  bars  at  the  king's  lions  in  their  den; 
then  formed  their  shapes  in  marble,  gloriously  ideal 
ized.  I  gained  reverence  through  the  hard-won  skill 
of  rny  right  hand.  I  arrived  at  the  greatness  I  had 
coveted.  The  king  himself  begged  me  to  adorn  his 
house  with  shapes  of  strength  and  beauty.  Admir 
ing  men  came  to  me  and  said  humbly,  '  Master, 
teach  us  ! '  Clad  in  my  new  robes  of  dignity,  I  tried 
to  forget,  disown,  the  days  when  I  had  hungered 
unsatisfied. 

"  Among  those  who  came  to  learn  of  me  was  one, 
a  foster-brother  to  the  young  prince  whose  corona 
tion  we  are  going  to  see;  he  put  his  sharp  chisel 
carelessly  to  the  stone,  and  lo !  it  lived.  What  I  had 
spent  my  youth  and  health  in  acquiring,  some  god 
had  flung  to  him  in  reckless  lavishness.  A  burning 
bitterness  surged  in  my  heart  at  sight  of  his  work,  — 
a  slow,  consuming  hatred  of  him ;  for  I  discovered 
in  his  eye  a  lurking  contempt  of  me.  It  seemed  to 
say,  'The  world  knows  you  not,  but  I  know  you.' 
It  seemed  somehow  he  was  aware  of  the  low  origin 
I  concealed,  and  the  old  struggles  I  denied  as  though 
they  had  been  ignominious.  He  found  nothing  to 
respect  in  the  long  effort  by  which  I  had  lifted  my 
self  from  the  level  sea  of  insignificance,  —  only  some 
thing  to  laugh  at  in  my  petty  weaknesses.  I  felt, 


20  TRISTIANE. 

though  I  never  saw  him  do  it,  that  he  mocked,  with 
the  strange  cruelty  of  youth,  the  peculiarities  of  my 
person,  —  my  gait,  that  I  had  studied  to  make  grave 
and  dignified  (my  low  stature  had  always  been  a 
vexation  to  me,  but  by  my  sternly  erect  carriage  I 
had  arrived  at  appearing  almost  tall) ;  my  manner 
of  speech,  that  I  had  not  succeeded  in  rendering  soft 
and  polished  as  that  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  court, 
where  I  now  figured  as  an  honored  guest.  He  spoke 
to  me  as  to  a  slave,  that  a  free-born  man,  out  of  his 
own  nobility,  refrains  from  calling  slave  !  I  knew 
by  some  subtle  sense,  the  property  of  morbidly  sen 
sitive  vanity,  that  he  held  me  up  to  the  laughter  of 
his  companions  and  the  women  of  the  palace.  I 
thought  I  caught  sneering  side-glances  from  their 
eyes,  yet  never  anything  I  could  complain  of,  ap 
peal  from.  My  life  was  poisoned.  I  was  too  small  to 
rise  above  the  intangible  offence  of  their  ridicule. 

"The  king  said  to  me  one  day,  'Make  me  two 
bold  lions  to  support  my  throne.'  Then  my  enemy, 
who  stood  by,  spoke  —  the  dastard — from  his  high 
advantage,  'Let  the  son  of  Magnus  make  one  lion, 
and  I  will  make  the  other.'  The  king  laughed  at 
his  audacity,  and  said,  '  So  let  it  be.'  My  hair  was 
growing  prematurely  white  with  the  toils  of  a  storm- 
beaten  life ;  his  face  was  blooming  with  its  first 
golden  down.  There  was  a  deep,  refined  cruelty  to 
me  in  letting  us  vie  together,  whatever  the  issue  of 
our  emulation.  I  could  not  work  well  with  so  much 
stifled,  corroding  hatred  in  my  heart.  My  mallet  grew 
heavy,  my  chisel  unsure ;  the  glory  had  gone  out  of 
my  work.  It  was  a  botch.  When  I  was  forced  to  own 


TRISTIANE.  21 

that,  I  shed  tears  wrung  from  the  bitterest  humilia 
tion.  Then,  like  a  thief,  I  slipped  into  the  room 
where  his  statue  stood,  finished,  as  I  had  heard.  Yes, 
his  was  all  that  could  be  wished.  How  it  would 
shine  beside  mine,  my  young  pupil's  !  How  every 
one  would  turn  from  mine  to  admire  the  perfection 
of  his,  and  speak  of  it  aloud  before  me !  In  an  access 
of  uncontrollable  rage  I  lifted  my  mallet  —  But  no ! 
I  was  not  so  base ;  it  was  only  the  momentary  evil 
impulse  of  vanity  at  bay.  As  I  lowered  my  arm, 
I  suddenly  perceived  him  in  the  door-way,  beneath 
the  half-drawn  curtain.  He  stood  there,  the  strip 
ling,  in  all  the  insolent  beauty  of  his  youth,  look 
ing  at  me  from  between  his  half-closed  golden 
lashes,  his  lips  slightly  curled  in  a  smile.  His  face 
said  plainly,  '  I  looked  to  find  him  here,  the  peacock 
who  hides  his  feet !  Fortunately,  I  am  here  in  person 
to  defend  my  work  from  his  felonious  hands.  How 
amused  the  world  will  be  to-morrow,  when  I  shall 
tell  of  this :  the  great  master  who  sneaks  in  at  night 
to  mar  a  rival's  labor ! '  In  an  instant,  before  he 
could  cry  out,  he  was  stretched  on  the  ground  at  my 
feet,  the  scorn  transfixed  on  his  lips,  my  hammer 
driven  so  deep  in  his  skull  I  had  afterward  not 
strength  to  withdraw  it." 

The  son  of  Magnus  hid  his  face  in  his  hands ;  his 
whole  miserable  frame  shook  with  horrified  shudder 
ing  at  the  remembrance  of  that  scene.  "But  the 
worst  was  not  that,"  he  went  on,  — "  not  that  I  found 
myself  a  murderer ;  the  worst  was  when,  the  deed 
accomplished,  I  found  myself  to  be  a  coward.  I,  to 
whom  the  respect  of  others,  the  esteem  of  myself, 


22  TRISTIANE. 

was  more  than  food  or  air,  found  myself  trembling 
with  abject  fear  of  the  consequences  of  what  I  had 
done.  They  would  be  fatal,  I  knew ;  for  I  had  never 
been  truly  beloved,  only  borne  with  and  respected 
for  the  sake  of  my  talents ;  and  now,  who  would  find 
the  least  excuse  for  me,  who  conceive  any  motive  in 
me  but  meanest  jealousy  of  the  gifts  of  that  youth, 
whose  very  faults  had  been  as  bright  and  bewitching 
as  my  only  virtues  were  sombre  and  unattractive  ? 
No  one  would  understand,  or  feel  the  least  poor  pulse 
of  pity  for  one  whose  sun  had  so  suddenly  gone  down 
forever.  And  then,  unexpectedly,  vile  physical  fear, 
such  as  I  had,  to  that  day  unproved,  thought  my 
nature  incapable  of,  surged  in  me  and  discolored 
my  lips  at  the  thought  of  pangs  the  flesh  can  be 
made  to  suffer.  Veiling  my  eyes  from  the  sight  of 
my  victim,  I  slunk  from  the  palace  and  fled  into  the 
night.  From  the  moment  I  took  on  that  vesture  of 
fear  I  seemed  to  shrink  in  stature ;  and  when,  as  part 
of  my  disguise  having  shaved  my  worshipful  beard, 
my  face  appeared  to  men  as  my  internal  nature  had 
suddenly  appeared  to  my  own  inner  eyes,  stripped  of 
all  charitable  veils, — my  face  showed  the  weak,  mean 
mouth  of  a  coward  I  had  worn  hidden  beneath  the 
dense  hair,  even  as  my  soul  revealed  the  shameful 
weakness  I  had  striven  to  cover  and  ignore.  Home 
less  vagabond  from  that  hour,  unrecognizable  in  my 
humble  guise,  I  wandered  as  far  as  possible  from 
the  scene  of  my  fall,  suspicious  and  afraid  of  every 
shadow  by  day,  hag-ridden  by  night. 

"  And  lo !   the  strange  colors  my  life  takes  on  ! 
When  I  had  reached  a  place  that  seemed  safe,  comes 


TRISTIANE.  23 

across  my  path  the  lion  that,  from  a  seeming  likeness 
to  myself,  my  starving  heart  clings  to,  —  for  is  not  he 
too  an  exile,  he  too  debased  from  high  estate,  a 
mockery  of  himself,  weak,  and  early  old  from  the 
inclemency  of  Fate  ?  And  I  must  stay  with  him,  — 
a  man  cannot  live  wholly  loveless !  —  and  with  him 
become  a  servant's  servant  to  Tritior, —  no  condition 
too  vile  for  me  now !  And  suddenly  dies  the  old 
king,  and  Triflor  sees  good  to  be  present  at  the  coro 
nation  of  the  young  prince,  and  a  horrible  attraction 
draws  me,  too,  back  to  the  old  haunts  I  have  shunned, 
— a  strange  excess  of  fear.  For  the  habit  of  fear  has 
grown  on  me.  When  I  tremble  now,  it  is  with  the 
accumulated  terror  of  months.  It  seems  to  me  that 
if  some  one  now  in  my  presence  were  to  speak  of 
Magnus,  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  fright  I  should  be  forced 
to  leap  up  and  cry,  '  I  am  Magnus .' '  All  else  in  me 
has  been  degraded  and  lost  in  that  feeling,  all  the 
lofty  qualities  I  boasted  of  in  the  days  of  my  pride. 
Sometimes  in  the  still  of  the  night  I  try  to  remember 
what  little  good  I,  who  thought  myself  not  a  bad 
man,  really  did  in  those  days ;  and,  alas !  it  seems 
so  little  that  I  doubt  if  I  was  ever  good  at  all.  And 
do  you  know  what  is  my  greatest  torment  now  ? 
That  in  thinking  of  the  man  I  killed  I  always  see 
his  face  as  it  was  at  his  best  and  brightest.  In  his 
eye  that  persecutes  me  is  no  hatred,  his  lips  wear  no 
scorn,  till  I  almost  doubt  he  ever  wronged  me,  and 
none  of  the  justice,  only  the  blackness,  of  my  deed 
remains." 

Ib  ceased,  staring  at  the  visionary  face.    The  moon 
had  gained  on  the  shadow  in  which  they  had  stood. 


24  TRISTIANE. 

Tristiane  was  full  in  the  silvery  light,  but  Ib  still  in 
the  dark. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  turning  to  her  once  more,  — 
and  there  was  a  wild  appeal  in  his  voice,  —  "I  have 
told  you  what  manner  of  man  I  am,  I  have  placed 
my  life  in  your  hands,  —  what  will  you  do  with  my 
life  ?  How  will  you,  who  have  never  done  wrong, 
deal  with  me,  whose  whole  life  has  been  evil  ? " 

Then  Tristiane  said  slowly :  "  I  will  be  your  friend. 
I  will  love  you.  I  will  shield  you  in  all  the  days  of 
your  danger.  I  am  strong.  Oh,  my  wounded,  way 
worn  brother,  lean  upon  me  and  rest ! "  She  held 
out  her  hands  to  him. 

Ib  did  not  take  them,  but  stood  startled  and  hesi 
tating,  as  though  suddenly  in  a  dream  something  of 
peace  and  joy  and  promise  of  redemption  had  come 
into  the  night  of  his  life,  and  he  feared  to  move  lest 
he  should  wake ;  then,  as  his  slow  brain  seized  the 
value  of  her  words,  he  fell  forward  at  her  feet,  and 
clasped  his  arms  about  her  knees,  and  hid  his  face  in 
her  garment,  sobbing  like  a  little  child. 

At  dawn  the  strange  caravan  moved  on  southward 
over  the  saddening  land,  beginning  to  wither  and 
turn  brown  in  the  autumnal  air.  Last  of  all  in  the 
fantastic  procession  came  Ib,  leading  the  lion,  his 
eyes  turning  forever  through  the  weary  marches  upon 
the  great  figure  of  Tristiane,  whether  distinguished 
far  ahead,  seeming  to  help,  with  one  careless  hand, 
Jarl  with  his  wagon-load,  or  lingering  behind  with 
the  foot-sore  Kabiorg.  The  unswerving  devotion  of 
his  gaze  still  followed  her  when  the  light  failed,  and 


TRISTIANE.  25 

she  seemed  but  a  shadow  within  the  shade ;  and 
when  at  last  they  had  reached  a  resting-place  for  the 
night,  and  they  might  talk  softly  together  awhile, 
and  his  face  rest  a  little  upon  her  hands,  the  world 
seemed  less  a  foe,  and  life  less  wholly  accursed. 

Day  by  day  the  little  troupe  neared  the  capital. 
At  last,  one  evening  at  sunset,  they  came  in  sight  of 
its  towers  glowing  faintly  far  away  in  the  dying  red 
light.  Triflor  clapped  his  hands  and  shouted  with 
wild  delight.  Ib  felt  himself  grow  cold  to  the  heart. 
A  black  mist  hid  the  distant  prospect  from  his  eyes. 
He  stopped,  overcome,  and  would  have  sunk  upon 
the  earth  but  that  he  felt  the  strong  hand  of  Tristiane. 
He  looked  up  at  her.  They  walked  on  together  with 
out  speaking. 

The  merrymakers  came  constantly  in  contact  with 
other  travellers  approaching  the  capital  by  the  same 
road.  Now  splendid  companies  of  horsemen  passed 
them  ;  now  groups  of  peasants  in  their  holiday  clothes. 

The  feasts  of  the  coronation,  which  were  to  last 
seven  days,  were  within  one  day  of  beginning,  when 
Triflor,  in  his  tinsel,  for  the  first  time  stood  on  his 
little  platform,  clashing  his  cymbals  to  attract  the 
passers'  attention,  and  in  the  pauses  of  the  deafening 
music  inviting  them  to  enter  his  booth  and  enjoy  for 
a  small  consideration  the  wonders  therein  to  be  dis 
played.  The  crowd  flocked  in  under  the  old  curtain, 
eager  to  be  amused,  —  a  lazy,  happy,  holiday  crowd, 
that  laughed  heartily  at  Hatto's  tricks,  and  wondered 
with  wide  eyes  at  the  ease  with  which  Jarl  lifted  huge 
weights,  and  held  them  balanced  in  one  knotty  hand. 
The  girls  in  spangled  kirtles  danced  daintily  before 


26  TRISTIANE. 

their  admiring  eyes,  waving  their  long  bright  scarfs. 
Ib,  with  a  feint  of  trepidation,  led  forward  the 
lion,  —  who,  worn  out  and  impotent  and  half-blind  as 
he  was,  still  looked  rather  formidable,  —  and  aston 
ished  the  lookers-on  by  placing  his  hand  in  the 
terrible  red  moutli  of  the  beast,  and  making  him 
leap  through  a  hoop,  and  perform  other  clown's 
feats.  Then  Kahilde  led  him  around,  the  fierce  desert 
king,  by  a  flower-chain,  to  symbolize  the  triumph  of 
Love ;  Ib  following  her  at  a  few  steps'  distance  with  a 
drawn  sword,  to  impress  the  people  with  a  sense  of 
her  risk.  The  pallor  of  his  strange,  hollow  face  as 
he  stood  up  before  the  many  eyes,  and  the  drops  of 
sweat  that  appeared  on  his  forehead  as  at  a  sudden 
wild  wave  of  the  lion's  tail  the  crowd  broke  out  in  a 
loud  cry,  lent  a  touch  of  reality  to  his  acting.  The 
crowd  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  when  he  finally  led  the 
lion  out  of  their  sight. 

Tristiane  had  been  standing  apart,  idly  leaning 
against  one  of  the  roof-supporting  shafts,  half  hidden 
by  the  evergreens  that  for  ornament  had  been  twined 
about  them,  intermingled  with  bright  berries.  Care 
lessly,  when  Ib  had  vanished,  she  let  her  eyes  stray 
over  the  heads  of  the  spectators.  They  had  been 
fastened  for  a  few  seconds  on  one,  —  the  only  one  there 
whose  face,  rising  above  the  rest,  was  on  a  level  with 
her  own,  —  when  Triflor  came  up  to  her,  and  suddenly 
drew  the  attention  of  the  whole  crowd  upon  her. 
He  pointed  at  her  with  the  end  of  his  wand  :  "  This," 
he  said,  "  is  the  Woman  who  tells  the  truth." 

Tristiane  stood  composed  and  unembarrassed  un 
der  the  scrutiny  of  so  many  eyes. 


TKISTIANE.  27 

Suddenly  some  one  at  the  farther  end  of  the  booth 
broke  out  laughing.  Triflor  caught  up  the  laugh. 
"Ha!  the  gentleman  laughs.  He  thinks  such  a 
woman  should  indeed  be  set  up  at  a  show,  like  a 
strange  and  very  rare  animal.  The  manner  of  Tris- 
tiane,  this  truthful  woman,  however,  is  perhaps  dif 
ferent  from  what  the  gentleman  has  supposed." 
Then,  addressing  the  whole  community  :  "  Do  you 
know  the  saying  in  the  legend  of  long  ago,  —  that 
one  who  in  all  his  days  has  not  lied  shall  surely  be 
able  to  tell  falsehood  from  truth  in  others  ?  That 
does  my  Tristiane.  That  her  presence  may  not  seem 
a  reproach  to  the  ladies  here  who  cannot  do  as  much," 
he  added  apologetically,  "  I  will  confess  that  she  has 
lived,  deep  among  the  unpopulous  mountains,  a  life 
of  perhaps  enforced  innocence.  To  account  for  her 
superior  size,  we  must  suppose  her  to  have  fed  on 
strange  fruits.  Her  fame  as  a  seer  reached  me  as  I 
was  passing  through  those  parts,  and  taking  advan 
tage  of  a  sudden  awakened  instinct  of  curiosity  in 
her  concerning  the  world  of  smaller  and  less  truthful 
beings,  I  was  enabled  to  bring  her  thus  far." 

From  the  statuesque  repose  of  her  face  one  might 
have  supposed  Tristiane  quite  unconscious  of  Triflor' s 
words. 

"Approach,  approach,  and  put  her  to  the  test,"  pur 
sued  Triflor  ;  "  approach,  —  however  clever  you  may 
be,  you  cannot  hope  to  baffle  her." 

The  crowd  came  a  little  nearer,  laughing  faintly  in 
wonder,  not  knowing  exactly  what  to  say  to  her. 

"  Come,"  said  Triflor,  encouragingly,  "  see  for  your 
selves.  Tell  me,  Tristiane,  is  it  not  so,  that  I  had 


28  TRISTIANE. 

some  excellent  sausages  and  cabbages  for  my  early 
meal?" 

Tristiane  shook  her  head. 

"  No  more  did  I.  You  see,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
she  does  not  know  that  I  had  bacon  and  onions,  but 
is  sure  I  ate  no  cabbage." 

"  My  name  is  Knut,  —  is  that  not  so  ? "  asked  a 
voice  at  her  right  hand. 

She  looked  around  at  a  strong  sunburned  fellow 
with  gold  rings  in  his  ears. 

"Yes;  Knut." 

"  And  I  peddle  earthen  pipkins  in  a  great  basket 
about  town  for  a  living  ? " 

"  No." 

"  But  I  plough  and  dig  the  earth,  watering  it  with 
sweat,  for  a  harvest  ? " 

"No." 

"  Then,  perhaps,  I  am  a  cook  of  my  great  Lord 
Sweyu's,  and  fashion  dainty  dishes  for  his  tooth  ? " 

"  No." 

The  crowd  showed  signs  of  interest.  Several  broke 
in  with  questions.  But  Tristiane  fixed  her  attention 
only  on  the  man  with  the  ear-rings. 

"  Then  I  tell  you  finally :  I  live  by  water,  —  carry 
ing  it  in  jars  as  it  is  wanted  for  the  luxurious  bath 
of  some  fair  court-lady." 

"  No." 

"  No  ?    Should  you  say  that  I  was  a  seaman,  then  ? " 

Tristiane  nodded  assent.  The  man  started.  A 
murmur  of  wonder  passed  through  the  crowd. 

"And  ray  ship,  the  'Viking,'  reached  land  last 
night  ? " 


TRISTIANE.  29 

"  Your  ship.     Not  the  '  Viking.' 

"  And  we  are  not  to  spread  sails  again  until  the 
feasts  are  over,  and  young  Erik  established  king 
over  us." 

"Erik  the  glove,  and  Sweyn  the  hand  ! "  said  a  voice 
somewhere  in  the  crowd,  that,  however,  no  one 
heeded.  "  Erik  the  mask,  and  Sweyn  the  face." 

And  now  Tristiane  was  assailed  with  questions 
from  all  sides.  Something  of  awe  came  into  the 
faces  of  the  people  as  she  answered  them  one  after 
the  other;  no  question  trivial  enough  to  make  her 
quiet  eyes  disdainful,  nor  so  cunning  and  clever  as  to 
make  her  hesitate  in  answering.  She  stood  looking 
over  their  heads  with  far-seeing  eyes  that  seemed 
scarcely  aware  of  them.  Gradually  the  questions, 
asked  at  first  with  light,  eager  curiosity,  grew  fewer, 
and  it  came  to  seem  a  rather  solemn  thing  to  stand 
under  those  deep  eyes  and  have  untruth  denounced. 

"  Tristiane,"  said  a  voice  just  near  her,  when  finally 
silence  had  fallen  on  the  people,  "now  heed  me 
awhile." 

She  turned  to  the  speaker,  —  the  tall  man  who  had 
arrested  her  attention  before,  the  only  one  whose 
eyes  met  hers  from  an  equal  height.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  common  garb,  and  judging  from  that,  might 
have  been  a  peasant.  A  fierce  red  beard  hid  the 
lower  part  of  his  face.  There  was  a  keen  brightness 
in  the  light  of  his  steadfast  eye. 

Tristiane  returned  his  firm,  large-eyed  gaze ;  then, 
as  he  was  beginning  to  speak,  interrupted  him. 

"  Why  will  you  speak  ?  Your  garb  is  a  lie.  Your 
conduct  is  a  lie.  Those  clothes  do  not  belong  to  you, 


30  TRISTIANE. 

nor  does  the  character  you  assume.  You  have  no 
need  to  speak  to  be  told  by  me  that  you  are  lying." 
And  then,  more  gently,  as  she  looked  at  him  whose 
eyes  were  on  hers  as  steadfastly  as  before,  unabashed 
by  her  reproach :  "  What  need  have  you  to  demean 
yourself  ?  You  are  brave  enough  to  keep  true,  and 
strong  enough,  and  great-hearted  and  noble  enough, 
as  I  can  see." 

The  booth  was  finally  deserted  ;  Triflor  and  Hatto 
and  Jarl  went  forth  to  seek  what  amusement  or  in 
terest  the  city  might  afford  them.  The  little  dan 
cers,  weary,  retired  to  rest.  Tristiane  remained  with 
Ib,  who  had  been  left  to  keep  guard  over  Trirlor's 
possessions. 

"  I  am  crushed  with  the  weight  of  memories,"  he 
said  to  her.  "  It  seems  but  a  day  since  I  passed 
through  these  streets  at  night,  a  trembling  shadow. 
I  can  still  feel  the  blood  upon  my  clothes.  It  had 
come  to  seem  a  little  like  the  past,  to  have  a  little 
the  dimness  of  a  dream ;  but  now  again  I  feel  the 
heat  at  my  heart  I  felt  in  my  earliest  remorse,  and  I 
cannot  free  myself  of  the  thought  he  must  be  still 
lying  undiscovered  beside  his  blood-bespattered 
masterpiece." 

Tristiane  comforted  him  with  her  hand,  laid  gently 
on  his  head  in  the  dumb  eloquence  of  pity  too  deep 
for  words.  He  lifted  his  head  from  between  his 
knees,  and  looked  up  at  her. 

"  Your  face  dispels  the  vision,"  he  said,  after  intent 
gazing.  "  Your  touch  makes  my  head  cool.  I  can 
almost  think  sometimes  that  I  have  been  forgiven, 
for  your  sake,  because  you  have  cared  about  my  mis- 


TEISTIANE.  31 

ery.  When  I  look  at  you  long  —  long  —  there  seems 
to  corne  to  me  a  voice  from  somewhere  far  away  that 
whispers  to  my  heart  a  promise  of  peace,  to  be  ful 
filled  some  time,  —  before  I  die,  perhaps,  or  after. 
Surely  it  was  a  token  of  some  relenting  in  Heaven 
toward  me  that  you  should  come  to  me  at  the  time 
of  my  most  hopeless  pain.  You  have  lifted  me  a 
little  out  of  the  slough  where  I  am  fallen.  From 
your  complete  courage  I  have  gained  this  little 
strength  :  that  I  do  not  pity  myself  any  more,  but 
exult  with  a  savage  gladness  that  I  have  suffered  so 
much,  suffer  so  much,  and  can  perhaps,  at  length, 
with  my  exquisite  torture  hope  to  pay  my  just  debts 
and  stand  up  a  free  soul  again.  Tristiane,  Tristi- 
ane,"  seizing  hold  of  her,  like  a  frightened  child, 
"  say  again  that  you  will  not  leave  me.  Sometimes, 
in  dreams,  my  suspicious  soul  tells  me  that  you  have 
gone  ;  and  then  when  I  awake,  though  it  is  still  black 
night,  it  seems  like  the  dear  dawn  to  me,  thinking, 
'  I  have  you  yet.'  You  are  the  last  spar  to  which 
a  desperate  man  is  clinging,  who  but  for  you  must 
sink  in  a  sea  whence  is  never  a  re-arising." 

He  clung  to  her  arms  as  though  indeed  to  save 
himself  from  death,  his  haunted  eyes  straining  from 
their  orbits.  She  soothed  him  as  a  mother  her  de 
lirious  child. 

He  grew  quiet  again  at  her  words  ;  and  being  full 
of  memories,  went  on  in  a  rambling  way  to  talk  half 
to  her,  half  to  himself,  of  his  old  home  and  old  friends, 
and  old  acts  and  thoughts. 

"I  wonder  who  now  lives  in  the  quiet  house  at 
the  end  of  the  street,  —  the  quiet  street.  I  had  a 


32  TRISTIANE. 

little  garden  enclosed  by  high  walls.  There  was  a 
fir-tree.  There  was  a  dark  pool  by  which  I  used  to 
sit  and  meditate.  I  could  watch  in  it  the  reflection 
of  the  sky.  I  remember  a  little  rosy  sunset-cloud  I 
saw  melt  away  there  one  night.  Swallows  had  built 
uuder  my  roof.  I  used  to  water  a  rose-tree.  Oh, 
how  could  I  love  such  simple  things  as  I  did,  and  yet 
be  a  bad  man  ?  How  could  it  be,  Tristiane  ?  And 
my  old  brown  volumes  I  used  to  read  when  I  was 
tired  of  wielding  the  mallet ;  and  my  shapely  lions 
that  I  made  !  Oh  !  if  it  could  be,"  he  groaned,  and 
tears  of  yearning  homesickness  crowded  in  his  eyes, 
"  that  1  might  find  myself  once  more  watching  the 
rosy  cloud  float  in  the  well  of  my  own  garden ;  that 
I  should  stand  in  my  own  walls,  about  each  stone  of 
which  a  thousand  memories  wreathe,  and  hew  into 
beauty  the  spotless  marble,  humming,  perhaps,  as  I 
used ;  that  men  like  myself  might  take  me  again  by 
the  hand,  and  converse  with  me  pleasantly  of  arts 
and  dreams  and  destinies !  I  never  loved  my  fellow- 
beings  very  warmly ;  there  seemed  to  be  an  in 
superable  barrier  between  us,  somehow.  I  was 
still  a  solitary  soul  when  I  lived  in  intimate  com 
munion  with  them ;  but  now,  how  I  could  faithfully 
love  the  least  among  them,  —  if  I  were  only  as  I 
used  to  be, —  if  I  were  just  worthy  to  touch  their 
hands ! " 

Tristiane  led  him  gradually  to  forget  as  he  answered 
her  questions  concerning  the  city  and  its  inhabitants 
and  customs.  She  listened  attentively. 

"  And  Sweyn  ?  Who  is  Sweyn  ?  I  have  heard 
that  name  twice  to-day." 


TKISTIANE.  33 

"  He,"  said  Ib,  "  is  the  captain  of  the  king's  guards. 
We  were  not  friends.  I  never  liked  him,  by  reason 
of  the  difference  between  us ;  and  now  I  think  I 
could  love  him  for  that  same  reason.  He  is  in  high 
favor  with  young  Erik,  —  an  idle,  ease-loving  boy, 
Erik,  beloved  mostly  for  the  sake  of  his  father.  I 
have  heard  say  that  Sweyn,  no  doubt,  will  wield  the 
sceptre,  whilst  the  other  wears  the  crown.  He  is 
worshipped  by  the  people  for  his  daring  deeds  in  bat 
tle.  He  is  great  in  body  as  in  soul.  The  glamour  of 
glory  is  about  his  name.  He  is  a  hero." 

Tristiane  could  not  sleep  that  night  for  the  many 
new  thoughts  that  fermented  in  her  brain.  The  long 
hours  of  darkness  for  her  were  painted  with  ever- 
shifting  figures  and  scenes,  through  which  shone  one 
starlike  idea,  and  illumined  them  all  with  clear, 
unvarying  rays. 

At  sight  of  her  on  the  following  day,  Ib  was  im 
pressed  with  the  set  purpose  in  her  face. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Tristiane  ? "  he  asked, 
in  wonder  at  it. 

"Do  not  ask  me,  Ib.  It  is  true  that  I  have  a  deed 
to  perform.  I  think,  maybe,  it  was  because  I  fore- 
felt  it  dimly,  that  I  was  impelled  to  leave  the  quiet 
shepherd-folk  and  mingle  with  this  strange,  great 
world." 

Ib  looked  at  her  with  troubled,  anxious  eyes. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Tristiane  ? "  he  cried,  seiz 
ing  hold  of  her  hand,  when  in  the  evening  she  was 
about  to  go  forth  on  her  secret  mission.  "  Do  not  go, 
Tristiane." 

3 


34  TRISTIANE. 

Tristiane  turned  back  with  a  smile  that  reassured 
him. 

"  It  is  for  the  best,"  she  said,  and  departed. 

He  walked  up  and  down,  up  and  down  like  a 
caged  lion,  as  long  as  her  absence  lasted.  Weak 
tears  of  relief  came  to  his  eyes  as  she  stood  before 
him  again. 

"  Oh,  you  must  not  leave  me,"  he  pleaded.  "  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  lost  you  forever  each  time  you  go  from 
my  sight.  It  is  like  suffering  death  over  and  over 
again.  And  to  have  you  go,  not  being  able  to  follow 
you  with  my  persistent  thought,  —  I  was  all  afloat  in 
a  black  sea,  Tristiane.  Say  you  will  not  go  again." 

But  Tristiane  shook  her  head. 

"  I  must,  Ib.     It  is  best." 

"Oh,  why  have  you  secrets  from  me  who  have 
shown  you  all  my  heart  ?  But  no  ;  forgive  me,  Tris 
tiane.  I  will  not  complain.  No,  I  am  content ;  only 
say  you  will  always  surely,  surely  come  back  to  me, 
and  I  will  hold  my  peace." 

But  his  anxious  eyes  dogged  her  every  least  move 
ment  on  the  days  that  followed,  and  an  unconquer 
able  pain  convulsed  his  face  at  her  repeated  absences. 
At  her  return  each  time,  with  redoubled  silent  fervor, 
he  clung  to  the  blessing  of  her  presence. 

"  You  look  so  happy,  Tristiane,"  he  said  once. 
"  Your  face  wears  a  hopeful,  expectant  look.  For 
what  pleasant  thing  are  you  waiting?" 

And  another  time  he  said  with  a  sharp,  sorrowful 
voice,  — 

"Do  not  look  at  me  like  that,  Tristiane,  —  as  if  you 
did  not  see  me  at  all,  but  some  one  else  beyond,  —  as 


TRISTIANE.  35 

if  some  great  person  stood  behind  me,  and  I  were  too 
small  and  insignificant  to  conceal  him  in  the  least, 
and  the  sound  of  my  voice  were  lost  to  you  in  rapt 
contemplation  of  him.  Ah,  Tristiane,"  with  sudden 
anguish,  "  what  has  come  between  us  ?  Sometimes 
now,  though  I  hold  your  hand  and  see  your  face, 
I  feel  as  if  you  were  far  away  and  lost  to  me 
utterly."  But  at  the  pained,  startled  look  she  gave 
him  he  went  on  penitently :  "  No,  no,  Tristiane,  do 
not  have  any  care  of  what  I  say.  You  know  I  am 
never  quite  in  my  right  mind  nowadays.  Make  allow 
ances  for  me.  No,  nothing  is  true  but  that  you  have 
been  good  to  me  and  are  not  going  to  forsake  me." 

One  morning  she  found  him  laboring  under  a  ter 
rible  agitation. 

"  Tristiane,  I  cannot  hide  from  you  what  I  have 
seen,"  he  said.  "  Silence  would  strangle  me.  You 
must  tell  me  what  is  the  gold  ring  fastened  around 
your  neck." 

Tristiane  instinctively  lifted  her  hand  to  her  neck, 
and  felt  the  gold  ring  there  stirred  with  the  sudden 
wild  pulsation  of  her  heart. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  return  last  night,  and  as  I 
waited  sleep  overtook  me.  When  I  woke,  the  first  pale 
glimmer  of  dawn  lighted  the  sky.  I  had  not  heard 
your  footsteps  as  you  came  back,  and  for  my  peace  I 
must  make  sure  with  my  eyes  that  you  were  near.  So 
I  crept  to  where  you  slept,  and  was  satisfied,  and  about 
to  retire,  when  I  distinguished  by  the  faint  light  a 
glitter  on  your  bare  neck  that  could  scarcely  be  a 
stray  lock  of  your  hair.  I  came  nearer,  —  I  could  not 
help  it,  —  and  —  Whose  ring  is  that  great,  golden, 


36  TRISTIANE. 

strangely  chiselled  ring,  that  might  fit  the  hand  of 
Thor  ?  For  whom  are  you  leaving  me,  Tristiane  ? 
Why  are  you  deceiving  me  ? " 

There  was  that  in  her  face  when  she  said,  "  Will 
you  not  trust  me,  Ib  ? "  that  made  his  anger  vanish 
as  mist. 

"  Yes,  I  will,  —  I  will ! "  he  cried,  with  a  passionate 
revulsion  of  feeling.  "  You  shall  never  hear  another 
murmur  from  me.  How  dare  I  question  you !  I 
will  trust  you  as  far  as  death,  and  farther.  I  will 
trust  you  as  the  true  and  steadfast  stars  that  return 
every  night  forever,  and  that  it  would  be  a  stupid, 
blasphemous  thought  to  doubt." 

"  How  your  face  shines,  Tristiane  ! " 

The  great  day  had  finally  arrived.  The  whole 
population  had  flocked  to  the  chief  streets  of  the  city 
to  see  the  new  king  borne  in  triumph  foremost  in  the 
glittering  procession. 

From  where  they  had  stayed  quietly  at  home  in 
the  old  booth  Ib  and  Tristiane  could  hear  faintly  the 
joyous  acclamations  of  the  people,  and  the  noises  of 
pipes  and  drums.  Ib  had  not  dared  to  venture  forth. 

"  How  your  face  shines,  Tristiane ! "  he  had  said  in 
numerable  times  that  day.  Whenever  he  looked  at  her, 
it  struck  him  anew.  "  Why  does  your  face  shine  ?  " 

But  she  had  not  told  him.  When  he  grew  restless 
and  excited  at  the  noises  without,  she  took  his  hand 
quietly  in  her  own,  and  made  him  tell  her  about  his 
old  home,  and  the  fir-tree,  and  the  well,  and  the  swal 
lows  under  the  roof.  It  always  seemed  he  could 
never  stop  when  he  began  talking  of  them. 


TEISTIANE.  37 

"  How  would  it  be  with  you,"  said  Tristiane,  turn 
ing  her  shining  face  away,  as  if  her  secret  must  appear 
written  there,  "  if  one  should  say  to  you,  '  You  may 
go  back  to  the  old  house.  The  past  shall  be  forgiven, 
the  dark  days  forgotten.  You  shall  sit  again  under 
your  own  trees,  and  watch  the  peaceful  sky  reflected 
in  the  well  of  your  own  garden  '  ?  " 

"  Do  not  say  such  things  to  me,"  cried  out  Ib,  in 
anguish.  "  You  were  never  cruel  before.  Do  you 
not  see  that  you  are  torturing  me  to  death  ? " 

Tristiane  was  silent,  but  she  pressed  his  hand  hard 
to  her  side  to  keep  from  speaking. 

"  How  your  face  shines,  Tristiane  !  —  how  your  face 
shines  ! " 

It  seemed  to  her  the  light  had  never  been  so  long 
in  fading  away  before.  She  came  to  the  door  and 
lifted  the  curtain  certainly  a  hundred  times,  to  see 
how  much  the  sun  had  declined.  Finally  the  red 
glow  began  to  narrow  in  the  clouds,  and  left  them 
gray.  The  streets  were  again  full  of  the  people  that 
had  before  been  massed  together  in  the  heart  of  the 
city.  The  merrymakers  got  home,  Triflor  bursting 
with  food  for  conversation.  The  lights  were  lit  in 
the  booth  ;  everything  was  made  ready  for  the  nightly 
performance,  sure  to  be  attended  by  great  crowds  on 
such  a  holiday. 

Finally,  that  too  was  over. 

"  Do  not  leave  me  to-night,"  said  Ib,  holding  Tris 
tiane  by  the  hem  of  her  garment.  "  I  am  so  filled 
with  strange  fears  and  forebodings.  My  heart  stops 
at  every  sound.  I  need  to  know  that  you  are  near,  to 
live  through  the  night." 


38  TRISTIANE. 

"  I  will  be  back  in  a  little  while.  Do  not  ask  me 
where  I  am  going.  I  cannot  tell  you,  —  not  yet.  It 
may  be  you  too  will  be  glad  to-morrow.  Good-night." 

The  sky  was  full  of  stars.  Tristiane  walked  on 
hurriedly.  The  streets  were  still  alive  with  people  ; 
it  was  too  great  a  holiday  to  go  to  bed.  She  pro 
ceeded  without  hesitation,  as  going  over  well-known 
ground.  Finally  she  came  to  the  king's  dwelling. 
She  showed  a  ring  at  the  palace-door,  and  was  led  in 
unquestioned.  Passing  through  the  corridors,  her 
ears  were  met  with  mingled  sounds  of  music  and 
wassail  and  laughter.  They  grew  less  as  she  ap 
proached  a  well-known  chamber,  far  apart ;  and  when 
she  had  entered  it,  and  the  heavy  bear-skin  curtain 
had  dropped  behind  her,  she  found  herself  again  in 
perfect  stillness.  Her  heart  was  beating  loud  with 
emotion.  She  held  her  glad  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door 
opposite  the  one  through  which  she  had  come. 
She  had  not  waited  long,  though  it  seemed  long  to 
her  impatient  spirit,  when  the  curtain  was  suddenly 
lifted. 

Tristiane  moved  one  quick  step  forward,  then 
stopped  short,  and  stared  in  dumb,  pleased  wonder 
at  the  man  who  had  entered. 

She  had  seen  him  before :  once,  the  first  time,  in 
peasant's  attire,  —  for  it  was  the  tall  man  with  the 
red  beard,  —  and  many  times  since  in  plain  soldier's 
garb ;  but  never  him  nor  any  one  arrayed  with  simi 
lar  magnificence. 

A  long  mantle,  lined  with  costly  furs,  snowy  and 
soft,  fell  in  stately  folds  from  his  shoulders.  His 
purple  tunic  was  bordered  with  gold.  A  heavy  roll 


TRISTIANE.  39 

of  twisted  gold,  the  two  meeting  ends  of  which  were 
beaten  in  similitude  of  lions'  heads,  curled  around  his 
powerful  neck,  and  betokened  his  exalted  rank. 

His  face,  in  unison  with  his  apparel,  that  night 
had  assumed  a  sudden  splendor.  His  vigorous  beard 
and  crisp  long  hair  shone  like  burnished  metal.  His 
eyes  had  the  steady  gleam  of  jewels ;  his  great  brow 
the  purity  and  polish  of  some  precious  marble ;  his 
lips  a  more  vivid  purple  than  his  garment.  An 
inward  fire  of  gladness,  a  mighty  purpose,  seemed 
to  have  lent  his  heroic  stature  almost  godlike 
proportions. 

"  Welcome,  Tristiane  !  "  he  said  to  her,  approaching. 

"And  is  it  Sweyn  ?"  asked  Tristiane,  abashed  ;  for 
he  scarcely  seemed  the  same  man  she  had  importuned 
so  many  days  with  her  insistent  prayers. 

"  Even  Sweyn." 

"  You  wear  such  a  glad  visage  to-night,  I  know 
that  you  have  gained  of  the  king  the  pardon  I  have 
asked.  Is  it  not  so  ?  The  son  of  Magnus  may  re 
turn  to  his  home,  and  have  restored  to  him  his 
wealth  and  his  work,  and  something  of  the  old  peace 
and  the  dignity  that  is  more  to  him  than  air  to 
breathe.  Is  it  not  so  ?  Ah,  you  are  good,  —  good,  — 
good  ! "  Tristiane,  with  impulsive  gratitude,  seized 
his  hand  and  bent  to  kiss  it.  Sweyn  withdrew  it 
quickly. 

"  I  am  glad  to-night,  but  not  for  that,  Tristiane," 
he  said. 

Tristiaue  uttered  a  faint  cry  of  sorrow,  and  the 
shining  light  went  out  of  her  face.  "  You  have  not 
obtained  it  yet  ?  And  I  must  come  again,  and  still 


40  TRISTIANE. 

again  and  again !  Do  you  know  how  many  times 
you  have  said  '  Come  to-morrow '  to  me,  —  how  many 
times  I  have  come  here  burning  with  hope,  and  gone 
away  chilled  with  disappointment  ?  I  thought  that 
this  should  be  the  last.  You  promised  to  aid  me.  I 
saw  in  your  face  that  you  had  truly  that  intention. 
Are  you  not  so  powerful  with  the  young  king  as 
they  say  ?  Ah,  surely  I  thought  to  hold  his  pardon 
in  my  hands  to-night,  written  out  fair  and  clear.  I 
thought  to  have  taken  it  home,  and  to  have  wakened 
him  where  he  slept  with  the  lion,  and  have  shown  it 
to  him.  How  he  would  have  wept  for  joy  on  my 
shoulder  !  Oh,  Sweyn,  —  oh,  mighty,  magnificent 
Sweyn,  —  how  long  must  I  wait  for  that  ?  One  day 
would  be  so  much  gained  from  desperate  wretched 
ness  !  Why  do  you  dally,  —  of  whom  they  say  that 
but  to  ask  of  the  king  is  to  obtain  ?  " 

Sweyn  smiled  slowly,  fixing  his  strangely  bright 
eyes  upon  her  as  he  spoke.  "  Tristiane,  you  of  the 
wise,  truthful  eyes,  are,  after  all,  the  simplest  woman 
in  all  the  world.  The  first  silly  wench  from  the 
street  could  answer  that  question  of  yours.  You  can 
see  men's  spoken  lies  in  their  faces,  but  have  not,  it 
appears,  the  gift  of  divining  evident  truths  left  un- 
uttered.  Why  am  I  slow  to  answer  your  petition, 
and  eager  to  let  you  come  here  night  after  night  to 
learn  from  my  lips  how  your  suit  is  advanced  ?  What 
is  the  fate  of  Magnus  to  me  ?  But  your  presence 
within  my  doors  is  more  than  the  interests  of  this 
vast  realm." 

Tristiane  stared  at  him  blankly,  not  understanding. 
"  But  you  are  going  to  get  Ib's  pardon  for  me  ? " 


TRISTIANE.  41 

she  faltered ;   "  you   are  going  to  do  as  you   have 
promised  ? " 

Sweyn  laughed.  "  Ah,  how  simple  you  are  !  how 
simple  you  are  !  You  are  like  the  great  pine-trees 
of  your  mountains,  and  the  grand  gray  rocks,  and 
the  pure  cold  wind,  and  the  deep-blue  mighty  ele 
ment  !  What  an  ever-renewed  delight  you  are  to 
me,  Tristiane  !  "  —  the  laughter  passed  from  his  face, 
and  his  eyes  were  intensely  earnest.  "  Now  forget 
for  a  moment  that  petty  coward,  —  not  worth  the 
breath  we  use  to  speak  his  name,  whom  out  of  your 
own  generosity  you  would  wish  to  save,  —  and  listen 
to  me  a  little.  I  am  Sweyn.  I  have  fought  many 
battles.  I  have  seen  death  close  in  the  face,  and 
smiled  at  it.  My  name  is  one  that  makes  the  ene 
my's  blood  stand  still  in  his  chilled  veins.  I  "am  a 
king  in  all  but  the  name.  There  are  thousands  who 
will  do  my  will  at  a  sign.  I  can  choose  to-morrow 
a  bride  among  the  most  beautiful  arid  noblest  iu  the 
land ;  and  yet,  until  I  saw  you,  I  was  as  lonesome 
as  a  creature  of  which  kind  only  one  has  been  placed 
upon  the  earth.  I  have  been  friends  with  men,  and 
yet  not  of  them.  I  have  led,  commanded,  made  use 
of  them,  been  above  them.  And  so  my  life  has  been 
cursed  with  a  hidden  want.  But  when  I  saw  you 
first,  —  when  to  satisfy  the  young  king's  freak  we 
had  gone  forth  on  a  merry  masking-time,  —  some 
thing  in  me  cried  out  at  the  sight,  '  You  have  found 
your  peer.'  Your  frank  eyes  looked  straight  into 
mine,  used  to  looking  down  into  others'  eyes,  and 
your  soul  shone  out  from  them  in  its  fearless,  stain 
less  altitude.  A  simple  majesty  breathed  from  your 


42  TRISTIANE. 

quiet  lineaments.  I  distinguished  an  awful  beauty 
in  them ;  you  are  so  greatly,  strangely  beautiful,  that 
the  common  herd,  too  dull  and  blind  to  recognize 
gods  when  they  walk  among  them,  do  not  even  sus 
pect  your  beauty  !  I  said,  before  leaving  you,  '  She 
shall  be  Sweyn's  bride,'  and  yet  I  had  not  resolved 
what  my  next  movement  towards  you  should  be, 
when  I  learned  that  you  had  urged  to  see  me.  I 
wondered  what  you  would  want  of  me.  There  was 
something  sublimely  laughable  in  your  petition,  — 
you  cannot  be  aware  of  it,  being  unlike  any  one  else  ; 
I  was  staggered  by  the  touch  of  greatness  in  your 
simplicity,  that  made  you  come  and  trust  the  cower 
ing  lamb  to  the  generosity  of  a  bloodthirsty  lion, 
relying  upon  a  bare  word  of  his  not  to  harm  it,  but 
to  save  it  from  the  other  lions.  There  was  something 
unanswerable  in  the  high  reasons  given  by  you  for 
mercy  and  pardon,  —  something  fatal  to  argument 
in  your  complete  ignorance  of  mean  and  revengeful 
motives.  Ah,  you  are  not  cunning  like  other  mor 
tals  !  You  say  exactly  what  is  in  your  mind ;  you 
either  have  no  knowledge,  or  else  a  noble  disdain 
for  sinuous  courses,  —  and  my  soul  bows  to  you, 
Tristiane ! " 

Tristiane  stood  like  a  statue,  and  listened  to  his 
words  without  averting  her  puzzled  face,  that  had 
turned  by  one  faint  shade  paler  as  he  spoke. 

"  Tristiaue,"  pursued  Sweyn,  more  hotly,  and  com 
ing  nearer  to  her,  "  you  shall  never  leave  me  now  ! 
You  do  not  understand.  Sweyn  loves  you.  Sweyu 
has  chosen  you  for  his  bride,  for  it  is  fit  a  lion 
should  have  a  lioness  for  his  mate.  Sweyn  has 


TRISTIANE.  43 

despised  for  you  all  the  artful,  accomplished  beauties 
of  the  court,  —  for  you,  grown  like  a  perfect  tree 
among  the  wind-blown  hills.  The  proudest  in  the 
land  shall  bow  to  you,  the  mistress  of  Sweyn,  who  is 
prouder  than  any,  and  yet  himself  bows  before  you. 
Oh,  beloved,  your  lashes  are  like  a  line  of  sunlight 
across  the  great  august  eyes,  darkly  blue  and  deep 
like  the  sea.  In  possession  of  you,  my  goddess,  I 
am  myself  uplifted  and  made  a  god.  I  am  joyous 
as  they,  transcending  all  human  powers  of  gladness, 
since  I  can  hold  your  great  and  gracious  body  in  my 
longing  arms,  and  call  you  Tristiane,  my  Tristiane, 
my  beautiful,  beloved  Tristiaue  ! " 

The  young  warrior  came  toward  her  with  out 
stretched  arms,  his  eyes  shining  with  a  wonderful 
brilliancy,  not  far  from  the  fervor  of  passionate  tears, 
his  firm  lips  trembling  for  once  with  an  unspeakable, 
perfect  tenderness. 

Tristiane  watched  him  with  troubled,  fascinated 
eyes.  A  sudden  beautiful  softness,  even  as  a  reflec 
tion  from  his,  came  into  her  face.  She  did  not  seem 
able  to  move ;  but  when  she  felt  the  first  slight 
touch  of  his  hand,  as  though  suddenly  awakening, 
she  cried  out,  "  No,  no,  you  must  leave  me ;  I  must 
go  to  Ib!" 

"  Never  again,  Tristiane  !  You  .shall  forget  Ib. 
What  is  Ib  ?  I  hate  him  !  He  shall  have  his  par 
don,  the  cur,  but  you  shall  never  see  him  again.  I 
will  teach  you  to  forget  him.  We  will  be  happier 
together  than  mortals  had  dreamed  to  be.  We  will 
live  in  more  than  human  splendor,  —  I  in  the  divine 
radiance  of  your  face,  you  in  the  light  of  my  trernen- 


44  TRISTIANE. 

dous  love  that  will  force  from  you  a  similar  love  in 
return.  Do  you  think  you  will  not  love  me  as  I 
love  you  ?  To-morrow,  I  tell  you,  Tristiane,  you  will 
give  me  throb  for  throb,  because  we  were  made  for 
each  other.  I  recognized  you,  marked  mine,  as 
soon  as  my  eyes  met  yours.  You  are  my  own  by 
right  of  the  stars,  of  my  birth,  of  my  strength. 
Sweyn  has  always  conquered !  And  he  holds  you 
now,  and  you  are  his  forever  —  But  you  have  turned 
pale,  —  you  have  become  so  cold." 

"  Let  me  go,"  said  Tristiane.  "  I  am  standing  in 
the  dark,  —  all  in  the  dark.  Only  this  is  clear  :  I 
must  go  back  to  Ib.  I  have  promised  never  to  leave 
him.  He  cannot  live  without  me.  His  life  has  been 
so  sad  !  Let  me  go." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Sweyn,  vehemently ;  "  I  abhor  the 
very  thought  of  your  past  contact  with  that  man. 
He  shall  never  lift  his  base  eyes  upon  you  again.  Is 
it  not  enough  that  he  shall  be  pardoned  for  your 
sake  ? " 

"  Let  me  go.  You  must  let  me  go.  He  will  die 
if  I  leave  him  ;  he  needs  me.  He  has  only  me  in  all 
the  world.  I  am  true  to  him  forever." 

"  You  will  forget  him,  I  say.  I  will  make  you  for 
get  him.  How  dull  you  are,  Tristiane,  and  ignorant, 
and  cold  !  Do  you  not  know,  Tristiane,  that  you  shall 
love  me,  —  that  it  is  not  possible  for  an  immense 
love  like  mine  to  awaken  no  answering  love  in  the 
beloved,  —  that  your  only  home  is  my  arms,  your 
resting-place  my  heart  ? " 

"  No,  no,  no ! "  cried  Tristiane,  in  strenuous  protest, 
shuddering  away  from  him.  "  I  do  not  know  what 


TEISTIANE.  45 

you  are  saying.  But  I  am  going ;  I  am  going  back 
to  Ib." 

She  moved  to  go ;  but  he  caught  her,  without  a 
word,  before  she  could  reach  the  door. 

"  Stay ! "  lie  said,  in  a  command  that  was  still  an 
appeal.  • 

"  I  am  going  back  to  Ib." 

"You  shall  stay!"  he  said  fiercely,  between  set 
teeth,  losing  his  head. 

His  terrible  strong  arms  were  around  her;  their 
faces  were  within  an  inch  of  each  other;  her  eyes 
glowered  sternly  into  his  beneath  her  stormy,  gath 
ered  brows ;  each  could  feel  the  other's  quick,  angry 
breath  fanning  his  hot  face. 

Then  began  a  mighty  struggle.  It  was  a  contest 
as  between  two  lions  of  equal  power  and  courage. 
Without  a  sound  from  their  lips,  but  occasionally  a 
sharply  drawn  breath,  they  strove  together  for  a  few 
seconds,  —  she  for  freedom,  he  for  mastery.  Sud 
denly,  with  a  cry  of  triumph,  she  broke  from  his 
arms  and  made  a  step  for  the  door.  He  overtook 
her,  and  held  her  fast  again,  with  a  burst  of  hoarse 
laughter.  She  felt  a  deathlike  sense  of  cold  creep 
over  her,  realizing  the  uselessness  of  her  efforts. 

Sweyn  stared  for  a  moment  in  her  fierce,  unyield 
ing  blue  eyes ;  then,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  he  flung 
her  from  him.  "Go,  —  go  back  to  your  son  of  Mag 
nus!"  he  cried,  out  of  his  mind  with  blind  wrath. 
"  I  renounce  you !  What  have  I  to  do  with  a  woman 
rigid  as  stone  with  resistance  of  me  ?  I  demeaned 
myself  to  strive  with  a  woman  ;  but  you  have  driven 
me  mad !  Go,  —  go  back  to  your  shameful  lover ! " 


46  TRISTIANE. 

lie  shouted,  with  an  increase  of  unreasoning  rage. 
"  You  would  have  saved  him,  but  I  tell  you  that  you 
have  sold  him  !  Mark  me  in  this :  he  shall  be  taken 
and  put  to  some  terrible  death  before  your  eyes !  I 
myself  will  tear  him  limb  from  limb,  —  yes,  with  my 
own  hands !  Do  not  imagine  that  he  shall  escape 
justice,  —  or  revenge  call  1t  now  more  properly ! 
There  is  no  hole  on  earth  so  small  he  can  hide  in 
it  from  me!  Go,  —  go  now,  if  you  will!"  and  he 
dashed  from  the  room. 

Tristiane  stood  still,  stunned.  Her  arms  dropped 
at  her  sides.  The  room  swam  before  her  eyes;  then 
all  grew  blank  before  them,  and  she  reeled  stupidly 
to  the  door. 

She  knew  not  how  she  reached  the  open  air,  but 
suddenly  she  found  the  stars  above  her  head.  The 
keen,  cold  wind  restored  her  to  her  senses,  that  had 
seemed  failing.  With  laboring  heart  and  trembling 
feet  she  hurried  on  in  the  direction  of  Triflor's  booth. 
Everything  was  hopelessly  confused  in  her  mind. 
She  seemed  walking  in  utter  darkness.  Only  this 
was  clear  to  her:  that  she  must  hurry  —  hurry  — 
and  take  Ib  away  somewhere  and  hide  him.  As  the 
thought  of  his  danger  pressed  harder  upon  her,  she 
started  to  run.  An  occasional  drunken  song  met  her 
ear.  Once  or  twice  she  missed  the  way,  and  had  to 
retrace  her  steps.  The  night  made  everything  look 
unfamiliar. 

It  seemed  to  her  she  had  been  wandering  about 
the  city  for  many  hours,  when  she  finally  reached 
what  she  thought  to  be  the  street  she  was  looking 
for.  Yes,  she  remembered  it.  The  booth  was  at  the 


TRISTIANE.  47 

other  end.  She  hurried  as  much  as  was  possible  in 
the  almost  utter  darkness ;  for  the  torch  placed  in  an 
iron  ring  at  the  corner  had  burned  itself  out,  and  the 
starlight  was  dim.  Now  she  stood  on  familiar  ground. 
There  was  the  booth.  All  might  yet  be  well. 

She  felt  her  hair  rise  on  her  head  with  a  sudden 
mortal  fear  as  she  entered  the  enclosure ;  for  in  ad 
vancing  she  stumbled  over  disorderly  masses  lying 
about  the  ground.  Then  she  became  aware  of  the 
stars  above  her  head  peeping  in  through  the  broken 
roof. 

"  Ib  !  Ib !  "  she  cried  out,  and  began  groping  madly 
about  among  broken,  ruined  things.  Suddenly  her 
hand  met  something  soft  and  warm,  —  the  lion.  Ib, 
then,  must  be  near. 

He  lay  by  the  lion,  quite  still.  She  shook  him 
and  called  to  him. 

He  drew  a  long  sigh.  "  Tristiane  ? "  he  asked 
faintly,  as  though  awaking  from  a  deep  slumber. 

Tristiane  fell  on  her  knees  beside  him.  "What 
has  happened,  Ib  ?  " 

"  Ah,  is  it  you  ?     Thank  God  it  is  you  ! " 

"  What  is  it,  Ib  ?    What  has  happened  ? " 

"  What  know  I  ? "  he  said  feebly.  "A  brawl,  —  a 
drunken  mob.  They  set  out  to  tear  down  the  place, 
—  for  fun.  All  fled.  I  was  afraid  to  go  at  first,  and 
then  something  fell  across  my  legs  and  I  could  not, 
because  I  was  so  faint.  It  is  there  now,  and  holds 
me  down.  Can  you  lift  it  ? " 

She  lifted  the  beam ;  he  crawled  from  under  it. 

"  Can  you  stand,  Ib  ? "  she  asked.  "  Can  you 
walk  ?  Oh,  Ib  ! "  she  cried  out,  in  a  voice  of  most 


48  TRISTIANE. 

piercing  anguish,  "  we  are  in  danger !  We  must  fly 
—  tonight  —  this  minute ;  and  I  have  brought  this 
upon  you  !  Oh,  do  not  ask  me ;  I  cannot  tell  you ! 
For  the  sake  of  pity,  do  not  ask  me !  Only  this :  we 
must  fly!  Whither,  I  do  not  know,  —  only  away 
from  this  city,  filled  with  our  enemies.  Come, 
come,  Ib!" 

But  Ib  had  sunk  again  to  the  ground.  "I  am 
hurt,  Tristiane.  I  cannot  walk.  We  cannot  fly.  No 
matter,  Tristiane;  I  have  long  expected  it.  Don't 
be  so  distressed.  I  was  lying  in  a  stupor  a  little 
while  ago,  that  seemed  like  death,  and  it  was  such 
peace  as  I  have  never  known.  I  think  I  could  lie 
still  here  to-night  and  let  them  come  that  seek  me, 
and  kill  me  if  they  would,  and  call  it  a  relief.  A 
beautiful,  grand  denial  of  all  the  past  it  would  be,  — 
would  it  not,  Tristiane  ?  —  to  meet  my  death  like  a 
man  in  the  end,  after  having  shunned  it  so  long,  like 
a  hunted  hare."  And  then,  in  a  whisper,  "  Are  they 
looking  for  me  ? " 

And  through  an  exquisite  sympathy  Tristiane 
could  feel  the  fever  of  fear  that  had  come  back 
upon  him  in  spite  of  his  courageous  words.  She 
did  not  answer. 

"  Are  they  looking  for  me  ? "  he  asked  again. 

"  Oh,  Ib,  I  will  save  you  yet ! "  she  cried  out ;  "  I 
will  save  you  yet ! "  There  was  not  a  moment  to  be 
lost.  She  stooped  and  gathered  him  in  her  arms, — 
a  light  weight,  scarcely  more  than  a  child's,  he  was 
so  wasted  away  with  sorrow  and  pain  and  fear.  With 
a  sigh  of  relief,  he  let  his  head  drop  on  her  shoulder ; 
he  felt  so  safe  in  those  strong,  kind  arms. 


TKISTIANE.  49 

She  stood  still  a  moment,  hesitating.  Where  should 
she  go  ?  Then,  as  a  sudden  light,  came  back  to  her 
mind  the  thought  of  Knut  and  his  boat,  that  was  to 
sail  as  soon  as  the  coronation  feasts  were  over,  the 
last  day  of  which  was  about  to  dawn.  Knut,  for  the 
sake  of  Kabiorg's  sweet  eyes,  had  been  a  frequent 
visitor  at  the  booth ;  and  Tristiane,  scarcely  listen 
ing,  had  heard  long  accounts  of  his  boat,  anchored  at 
the  mouth  of  the  river.  In  a  rapid  whisper  she  told 
Ib  of  it.  They  could  not  venture  to  follow  the  fer 
tile,  populous  river  road,  but  must  travel  to  their 
destination  over  unfrequented  downs  along  the  deso 
late  sea-coast. 

"  You  know  the  ways ;  direct  me,"  said  Tristiane. 
She  moved  to  the  door,  and  came  again  under  the 
open  sky.  "  The  lion  !  "  said  Ib,  sorrowfully.  Without 
a  word  she  turned  back.  The  lion  was  standing  strain 
ing  his  chain  after  Ib.  She  unfastened  him  and  led 
him  along.  The  three  went  forth  into  the  darkness. 

At  daybreak  the  city  was  far  behind  them.  They 
had  reached  unimpeded  the  verge  of  the  sea.  When 
the  light  made  things  distinct,  Tristiane,  who  from 
the  first  dim  glimmer  of  dawn  had  been  glancing 
anxiously  behind  her,  to  make  sure  they  were  not 
followed,  stopped  and  let  Ib  softly  on  the  ground. 
They  dared  not  travel  in  the  daylight  on  the  exposed 
bare  highland ;  one  least  mischance  would  be  fatal, 
Tristiane  felt,  and  she  would  not  risk  it.  In  a  little 
hollow,  veiled  by  a  few  ragged  bushes,  they  lay  all 
day,  —  Ib,  with  heroic  forbearance,  refraining  from 
questions  concerning  their  flight ;  for  which  her  eyes 
rendered  him  grateful  praise. 


50  TRISTIANE. 

When  the  darkness  had  come  on  again,  Tristiane 
arose  and  resumed  her  burden.  Ib  seemed  heavier 
than  before,  for  she  was  faint  with  hunger  and  con 
suming  agitation.  She  had  not  dared  to  beg  for 
bread;  they  must  vanish  from  the  land  like  shad 
ows,  leaving  no  trace  of  their  passage.  Ib,  exhausted, 
slept  fitfully  in  her  arms.  She  plodded  on  and  on, 
unwearied  and  watchful.  Now  and  then,  at  some 
least  unaccountable  sound,  she  felt  a  tremor  pass 
over  his  body,  and  her  heart  beat  wildly  against 
her  breast  for  pity. 

"  Oh,  be  not  afraid,  Ib !  I  am  with  you.  I  am 
stroug.  Indeed  I  will  save  you.  No  one  can  reach 
you  but  through  me." 

Over  the  desolate  downs  they  went  by  the  faint 
light  of  stars.  She  carried  him  tenderly  as  a  mother 
might,  having  a  care  of  his  hurt  limb.  A  little  late 
moon  gave  them  its  light  for  a  few  hours.  Tristiane 
set  her  face  to  the  wind,  and  progressed  rapidly, 
in  the  direction  of  the  river  mouth.  Occasionally, 
for  a  minute,  she  felt  the  numbness  of  extreme 
fatigue  creep  over  her,  and  her  foot  dragged ;  but 
there  arose  in  her  mind  the  memory  of  Sweyn's  infu 
riate  face  and  threatening  words,  and  she  went  along 
more  rapidly  than  ever,  with  quickening  breath,  a 
grim  determination  in  her  face  that  frowned  darkly 
on  the  darkness.  Glows  of  painful  heat  swept 
through  her  frame  at  the  ghastly  image  of  what 
must  follow  their  being  overtaken.  But  no;  she 
would  save  Ib,  —  Ib,  whom  she  had  betrayed !  And 
at  the  thought  of  her  fond  treachery,  —  alas!  how 
she  had  striven  to  do  the  very  best  for  him!  —  a 


TKISTIANE.  51 

great  yearning  to  make  compensation  to  him  made 
her  cry  out  again :  "  I  will  never  leave  you,  Ib.  I  am 
your  slave.  I  will  watch  over  you  every  hour.  I  will 
be  with  you  until  death.  Oh,  have  you  not  told  me  of 
a  beautiful  storied  place  where  there  are  more  flowers 
than  here,  and  the  air  is  balmy,  and  the  sun  shines 
in  a  sky  continually  serene  and  more  deeply  blue 
than  ours  ?  Have  you  not,  Ib  ?  We  will  go  there; 
we  will  travel,  travel,  travel  until  we  reach  it.  The 
boat  will  take  us  as  far,  perhaps.  We  will  not  rest 
until  we  have  touched  that  shore.  I  will  carry  you 
so  in  my  untiring  arms.  Then,  when  we  are  once 
there,  we  will  lie  down  on  the  soft  grass  and  listen 
to  the  birds  without  speaking.  We  will  remember 
the  past  only  as  a  troubled  dream.  Oh,  Ib,  Ib ! 
say  that  it  shall  be  so !  Say  that  you  can  still  be 
happy  ! " 

Ib  looked  at  her  long  with  his  grateful  eyes.  The 
dream  was  too  beautiful. 

"  Among  those  people  that  speak  another  language 
we  shall  be  alone  as  in  an  enchanted  place.  Tris- 
tiane  will  have  to  be  your  world  at  first,  as  well 
as  your  servant.  I  will  strive  to  be  enough,  in 
deed,  Ib.  I  will  heap  up  pleasant  leaves  for  you  to 
sleep  on.  All  that  shall  be  when  we  have  reached 
the  boat,  —  if  we  can  just  reach  the  boat !  We  shall 
see  this  shore  fade  away  like  smoke.  We  will 
say  good-by  forever  to  this  old  home,  and  begin 
life  all  over  again,  turning  our  eyes  to  a  new  and 
fairer,  that  will  hold  great  peace  for  us  two,  poor 
pilgrims ! " 

She  felt  a  tear  from  Ib's  eyes  fall  upon  her  neck. 


52  TKISTIANE. 

A  strange  flood  of  tears  blinded  her  own  eyes,  —  the 
first  she  had  ever  wept. 

".Oh,  Ib,"  she  cried  out  in  great  torment,  "forgive 
me !  forgive  me !  No !  spare  me,  —  do  not  ask  me 
for  what.  Hush!" 

She  stopped  short,  and  dropped  to  the  ground. 

A  noise  of  horses'  feet.  A  group  of  horsemen 
came  in  sight,  their  bright  torches  flaring  in  the 
wind,  and  shedding  about  them  a  strong  bloody  light. 
They  stood  still  not  far  from  the  place  where  the 
three  had  cowered  down  in  the  shadow  of  a  stunted 
tree.  They  seemed  to  consult  together  for  a  minute. 
They  held  their  torches  high  aloft  to  light  the  downs, 
and  gazed  anxiously  about.  Tristiane  held  her 
breath,  choked  by  her  heart.  Then  they  galloped  on, 
and  were  soon  lost  to  sight  behind  the  unevenness  of 
the  ground. 

Tristiane  arose  and  took  up  Ib,  and  moved  onward 
again,  walking  with  set  teeth.  The  strain  was  be 
ginning  to  tell  upon  her.  Her  even  breath  was 
drawn  deep  and  hard.  Ib,  weak  and  sick,  slept. 
She  knew  not  what  thanks  to  make  for  that  unex 
pected  blessing  of  sleep  that  had  fallen  upon  him. 
He  was  saved  the  agony  of  uncertainty  that  racked 
her  as  they  went,  went,  went  along  the  high  cliff 
overhanging  the  sounding  sea.  They  must  be  near- 
ing  the  mouth  of  the  river  now.  In  a  little  they 
should  be  safe.  An  anticipated  exultation  curved 
her  lips. 

Suddenly  she  heard  again  the  trampling  of  hoofs. 
She  bowed  down  over  the  earth,  shielding  Ib  with 
her  body.  Another  troop  of  horsemen  rode  by,  hold- 


TRISTIANE.  53 

ir,g  high  their  torches.  They  were  evidently  in  search 
of  some  fugitive.  An  overpowering  feeling  of  in- 
tensest  hatred  made  Tristiane  grind  her  teeth.  How 
he  had  kept  his  word !  how  cruel  to  the  core  he  was ! 
with  what  joy  he  would  do  all  he  had  threatened, 
and  more  !  how  he  would  hound  them  to  death  with 
his  bloodhounds,  and  laugh  when  he  had  them  at 
bay  !  with  what  keen  vindictiveness  he  would  relish 
her  horrible  pain,  in  the  slow,  hard  death  he  would 
inflict  on  the  shrinking  body  of  Ib  ! 

She  put  her  arms  protectingly  around  him,  and  all 
the  fierceness  of  a  lioness  aroused  in  defence  of  her 
young  fired  her  blood.  By  all  that  was  holy  in 
heaven  and  on  earth,  he  should  be  baffled  yet !  She 
arose  again,  and  went  on  along  the  unresting  sea, 
dragging  the  tired  lion. 

A  feeling  of  despair,  the  first  yet  known,  came 
over  her  when  another  troop  of  horsemen  rode  by. 
She  bit  the  ground  for  rage  and  sorrow  as  she  lay 
on  it  waiting  for  them  to  get  out  of  sight.  The 
enforced  delay  might  be  fatal ;  already  the  sky  was 
paling. 

When  they  had  passed,  she  went  on  stolidly: 
she  would  save  him !  But  a  feeling  of  cold  was 
in  her  heart  on  account  of  the  thousand  ghastly 
suspicions  that  dimly  crowded  about  her  brain,  and 
that  she  had  not  the  courage  to  face  and  consider. 
Ib  was  heavy  as  lead;  a  dull  stupor  had  come 
over  him  from  pain  and  weariness  ;  his  head  hung 
helplessly  on  her  arm.  All  at  once,  the  whole 
weight  of  the  truth  coming  upon  her,  she  halted. 
Of  course  they  would  be  taken.  His  people  —  for 


54  TRISTIANE. 

they  must  be  bis  people  —  would  lie  in  wait  at  all 
tbe  ways.  Tbey  sbould  be  cut  off  from  the  port, 
and  driven  to  the  sea.  With  the  courage  of  des 
peration  she  shook  herself  free  from  the  fear  that 
was  about  to  paralyze  her,  aud  walked  on  bravely, 
for  the  sake  of  one  possible  chance  of  safety,  —  for 
she  must  do  something. 

The  stars  went  out  one  by  one ;  the  dread  dawn 
came  on  relentlessly ;  slowly  it  whitened  in  the 
east. 

They  must  be  quite  near  the  river  now.  The 
boat,  no  doubt,  would  leave  on  the  high  tide ;  the 
tide,  she  judged,  was  about  half  in.  On  the  high 
cliff,  against  a  palely  roseate  sky,  appeared  the  great 
form  of  the  woman,  burdened  with  the  wounded 
man,  leading  the  lion. 

Suddenly,  far  ahead,  her  keen  eye  caught  sight  of 
men  on  horseback  standing  still.  She  shaded  her 
eyes  and  gazed  fixedly  at  them.  Yes,  his  men !  He 
had  done  his  worst ;  he  had  cut  off  the  way  to  the 
ship.  Then  she  looked  behind,  and  thought  to  per 
ceive  more  men  coming  on  from  there.  Then,  sud 
denly,  in  the  far  distance  at  her  right  hand  she 
caught  the  movement  of  many  vague  shapes.  So  it 
had  all  been  in  vain, —  the  long  march,  the  almost 
unendurable  strain,  the  trembling  hope!  Fool,  to 
have  thought  to  escape  him  !  Had  he  not  warned 
her  ?  "  Sweyn  was  never  conquered ;  Sweyn  never 
sues;  Sweyn  seizes  his  own."  So  they  were  in 
Sweyn's  hands  at  last ! 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  sea.  There  was  no 
place  to  hide  now  from  the  broadening  day.  She 


TRISTIANE.  55 

laid  Ib  on  the  ground,  and  sat  down  beside  him,  with 
his  head  on  her  lap.  The  doting  old  lion  crouched 
by  him,  and  licked  his  hand,  very  feebly,  once  or 
twice.  Tristiane  watched  the  sky  slowly  deepening 
in  color  where  the  sun  was  going  to  rise.  All  was 
over  now,  —  they  had  only  to  wait.  Her  eyes,  fall 
ing  on  Ib's  face,  filled  again  with  those  unfamiliar 
human  tears.  As  it  lay,  turned  to  the  dawn,  the  soft 
light  seemed  to  alter  and  ennoble  it ;  the  large,  in 
telligent  brow  wore  a  look  of  almost  seraphic  beauty ; 
the  weak  mouth  showed  only  an  excessive  tenderness 
in  its  pale  lines ;  the  hollow  eyes  were  filled  with 
peace ;  the  wind  that  blew  in  his  soft  thin  hair,  pure 
\vhite  now  at  the  temples,  made  it  look  like  rays  of 
light.  A  great  hot  tear  from  Tristiane's  eyes  fell 
upon  his  cheek.  His  eyes  opened,  and  looked  up 
into  the  gloom  of  hers.  "  Ah,  we  are  resting,"  he  said 
vaguely.  "  It  is  good  to  rest,  —  good  to  rest." 

His  eyelids,  weighed  down  with  somnolence, 
opened  and  closed  again  a  few  times,  then  finally 
opened  wide,  and  were  fixed  upon  her  with  infinite 
love.  "  I  have  been  dreaming  beautiful  things.  I 
had  forgotten  what  we  were  about.  Are  we  nearly 
there,  Tristiane  ?  But  no,  I  do  not  care.  I  feel  like 
a  little  child  again.  I  am  quite,  quite  safe  wherever 
you  are.  You  said  once,  '  Rest  upon  me.'  You  see 
I  have,  Tristiane.  You  are  so  strong,  —  so  great  and 
strong." 

Not  strong  nor  great  then  as  she  sat  looking  away 
from  him,  far  out  to  sea,  forcing  back  the  stream  of 
her  tears  to  its  burning  bed.  Her  dust-tarnished, 
dew-drenched  head  had  a  drearv,  disordered  look. 


56  TRISTIANE. 

The  old  godlike  calm  of  her  face  had  given  place  to 
an  expression  of  simple  suffering  humanity. 

"  Tristiane,"  said  Ib,  finally,  after  a  long  pause,  "  I 
have  thought  just  lately  that  maybe  my  life  was  not 
made  all  wrong  for  me,  after  all.  I  call  back  my 
curses  against  fate.  Maybe  it  was  best  for  me  that 
I  should  be  hurled  off  my  high  pedestal  of  self-right 
eousness,  and,  finding  myself  in  reality  so  much  less 
than  the  stature  of  a  man,  should  strive  to  gain  a 
manly  height  Surely  striving,  whether  a  man  suc 
ceed  or  not,  will  count  for  something  in  the  end.  I 
think  that  as  I  am  now — I  think — I  hope  —  and 
yet  cannot  altogether  trust  myself  —  if  I  were  put 
back  where  I  stood  when  I  for  the  first  time  discov 
ered  myself  wanting,  I  could  stand  up  and  pay  wil 
lingly  the  penalty  of  a  crime."  They  both  gazed 
silently  at  the  sky  for  a  while.  "  And  then  I  have 
you,"  he  went  on.  "  Without  all  that  pain  and  horror 
I  should  not  have  had  you,  Tristiane.  I  think  you 
have  made  up  for  it  all.  It  was  worth  such  suffering 
to  find  such  pity  under  the  skies.  I  think  perhaps 
for  you  I  would  live  it  all  over  again,  —  the  pain,  the 
horror,  and  —  yes,  the  crime."  And  with  more  love 
and  gratitude  in  his  face  than  could  ever  be  conveyed 
by  words,  he  said  softly,  "  How  shall  I  ever  thank 
you,  Tristiane !  Oh,  my  patient,  compassionate 
Tristiane ! " 

His  eyelids  dropped ;  he  dozed  again  before  Tris 
tiane,  who  was  searching  her  mind  for  some  little 
word  to  say,  could  speak  at  all.  Thank  Heaven  that 
he  slept ! 

She  turned  and  looked  around.     The  party  from 


TKISTIANE.  57 

the  right  had  come  nearer.  She  could  now  distin 
guish  the  mounted  men  one  from  another.  The  light 
was  so  bright  they  must  be  able  to  see  her  now,  and 
Ib,  and  the  lion.  Yes,  evidently  they  had  been  spied. 
The  men  came  on  quite  rapidly  over  the  uneven, 
difficult  ground.  One  great  horseman  led  the  rest. 
She  knew  him  even  from  so  far  away.  He  threw 
his  bridle  to  the  wind,  and  advanced  at  headlong 
speed.  Turning  again  to  the  sea,  she  saw  a  little 
ship  flying  over  the  dark  waves  with  full  white  sails, 

—  the  same,  no  doubt,  in  which  they  were  to  have 
escaped. 

And  now  the  great  rider  was  within  hearing.  She 
could  not  bear  to  turn  and  see  him  advancing  with 
his  conquering  mien,  —  to  watch  the  massive  outline 
growing  more  distinct,  and  the  terrible  revengeful 
face,  and  the  unfaltering  eye. 

How  sweetly  Ib  slept!  Suddenly  she  stretched 
her  hand  to  his  throat.  One  slight  effort  of  the 
strong,  merciful  hand,  and  he  need  not  fear  Sweyn, 

—  not  pain,  not  death,  ever  any  more.     One  effort  of 
that  hand  and  —     But  no,  she  could  not  do  it. 

No,  there  was  nothing  to  do,  —  nothing. 

With  her  last  strength  she  rose  to  her  feet  and 
confronted  the  rider ;  then  the  sense  of  the  approach 
ing  danger  and  death  for  her  sleeping  friend  over 
powered  her.  She  threw  up  her  arms  and  sank  down 
beside  him,  vanquished,  and  buried  her  blanching 
face  in  her  knees ;  for  there  was  nothing  to  do,  — 
nothing.  The  steel  might  pass  through  her  body 
first,  but  Ib  would  be  reached  in  the  end,  even  as 
Sweyn  had  said.  No,  there  was  no  hole  so  small  on 


58  TRISTIANE. 

the  face  of  the  earth  they  might  in  it  have  hidden 
from  him. 

A  voice  like  a  clarion  rang  through  the  misty 
morning  air,  "  Magnus,  son  of  Magnus !  Magnus, 
son  of  Magnus  ! " 

Tristiane  felt  Ib  tremble  violently.  She  looked  up. 
Ib  was  half  raised  on  his  knees,  staring  with  starting 
eyes  at  the  rider,  now  quite  near.  His  face  was 
ashen  and  quivering. 

The  great  voice  rang  out  again,  clear  and  sonorous  : 
"  Magnus,  son  of  Magnus  !  The  ban  against  thee  is 
called  in.  Thou  art  pardoned  of  king  and  country. 
Thy  goods  are  restored  to  thee.  Thy  rank  is  thine 
own  again.  Praise  to  the  king  who  sees  that  mercy 
is  good ! " 

Ib  stared  at  him,  still  quivering.  Then  slowly 
a  great  smile  irradiated  his  face,  at  the  same  time 
glorified  by  the  newly  risen  sun.  He  stretched 
his  hands  out  uncertainly,  and  groped  in  the  air  a 
moment,  and  fell  backward  on  the  ground  with  a 
sigh,  his  face  smiling  vaguely  up  at  the  suddenly 
illumined  sky,  —  the  face  of  one  who  has  died  of  a 
joy  too  great. 

And  Tristiane,  and  Sweyn,  who  had  arrived  on  the 
spot  and  leaped  from  his  saddle,  stood  gazing  at  each 
other  over  the  frail,  miserable,  liberated  body  with 
the  joy-lit  face.  Her  eyes  were  ringed  with  shadows 
dark  and  sad  like  death.  His,  too,  were  sleepless 
and  feverishly  bright,  staring  from  a  haggard  face. 
All  the  world  lay  steeped  in  the  sweet  red  color  of 
the  new  day.  They  gazed,  gazed  without  words, 
till  Sweyn  cried  out,  in  a  voice  harsh  and  broken 


TKISTIANE.  59 

with  emotion :  "  Ob,  why  did  you  think  the  very 
worst  of  me  ?  Why  did  you  believe  all  that  I  said  ? 
I  have  been  seeking  you  all  over  the  land  ever 
since." 

And  across  the  broken  barriers  of  hatred  and  in 
justice,  Tristiane,  her  face  full  of  unutterable  prayers, 
held  out  her  hand  to  him. 


SYLVAN  US. 


SYLVANUS. 

*  I  "HERE  was  a  rich  merchant  who  lived  very  com- 
JL      fortably  and  happily  with  his  excellent  lady 
until  their  only  child  died. 

The  poor  little  thing  had  come  so  late  and  gone  so 
soon.  It  had  been  so  pretty  and  promising ;  it  could 
already  creep  about  the  floor  arid  babble ;  it  danced 
in  the  nurse's  arms  as  soon  as  ever  a  well-known  face 
appeared  in  the  doorway ;  then  suddenly,  in  a  few 
hours,  all  that  was  changed,  —  there  was  just  a  pale 
little  body  to  put  away  quickly  and  plant  a  white 
rosebush  over. 

"  These  are  evil  days,"  thought  the  merchant,  bowed 
over  his  ledgers  in  his  counting-house  ;  "  but  they  will 
pass  too."  He  was  a  fat,  rosy  man,  fond  of  ease  and 
money  and  his  wife.  He  had  been  fond  also  of  little 
Otto ;  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  as  sorrow  made  one 
miserable  and  did  no  one  any  good,  one's  clearest 
duty  was  to  put  it  away  and  forget  it.  He  could, 
perhaps,  have  done  so,  but  his  wife  would  not  let 
him.  Her  eyes  were  always  red ;  she  never  smiled ; 
she  seldom  spoke.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  he 
was  awakened  by  her  crying.  When  he  looked  up 
from  his  emptied  dish,  he  saw  that  she  could  not  eat. 
And  this  month  after  month. 


64  SYLVANUS. 

At  last  he  considered  that  he  was  quite  worn  out, 
and  must  take  a  holiday,  —  must  contrive  to  breathe 
for  a  time  some  other  atmosphere  than  this  doleful 
one  of  his  own  house.  He  judged  that  his  absence 
would  be  a  grateful  relief  to  his  lady,  who  not  only 
would  not  permit  him  to  console  her,  but  looked  re 
sentfully,  it  appeared  to  him,  upon  his  good  appetite 
and  sound  slumbers. 

He  set  his  affairs  in  such  order  that  his  business 
could  be  carried  on  for  a  while  without  his  attend 
ance,  embraced  his  wife,  and  started  off  on  a  journey 
with  a  couple  of  good  friends  he  had. 

At  the  end  of  three  months  he  returned.  He  blew 
his  whistle  lustily  as  he  came  clattering  down  the 
street.  He  had  brought  curious  gifts  to  his  wife, 
beside  a  fresh  lease  of  health  gained  in  the  sunny 
foreign  land. 

His  wife,  sad  and  listless  as  when  he  left  her,  came 
out  on  to  the  doorstep  to  greet  him. 

"  Hold  out  your  arms  carefully,  wife,"  he  said  to 
her ;  and  from  under  his  cloak  he  dropped  something 
into  them,  —  something  dark  and  warm  and  soft. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  she  cried  out  in  alarm.  "  Is  it  a 
cub  ? "  for  it  was  after  sundown,  and  everything  dim 
and  gray.  "  Is  it  a  little  wolf  ?  " 

The  merchant  laughed,  leaped  off  his  horse,  —  no, 
he  did  not  really  leap,  but  let  himself  prudently 
down,  and  they  went  into  the  house. 

The  wife  hurried  to  the  light.  The  man  followed, 
and  sat  down  by  her,  enjoying  her  astonishment. 

The  brown  thing  slept.  It  smelt  good,  of  dead 
leaves. 


SYLVANUS.  65 

It  was  a  little  child,  after  all.  But  what  a  strange 
little  child !  Not  like  any  other  she  had  seen. 
Firstly,  it  was  so  brown ;  then  it  had  such  ears,  — 
long  and  pointed,  as  one  could  see  if  one  pushed  back 
the  coal-black  locks  that  fell  over  them.  Its  face 
was  not  pretty,  like  her  baby's  ;  it  did  not  look  like 
a  baby  even ;  yet  she  could  not  help  bending  over 
and  kissing  it.  It  opened  its  eyes,  —  very  large  and 
dark  and  soft  those  were,  —  looked  stupidly  ahead 
for  a  second,  then  curled  up  closer,  rather  like  a  tiny 
bear  than  a  child,  gave  a  warm  sigh,  and  slept  on. 
She  gathered  it  hungrily  against  her  bosom,  forgetting 
to  ask  who  was  its  mother,  and  if  she  might  not  be 
missing  it. 

Then  her  husband  told  her  his  story.  In  tracking 
the  boar,  on  a  jolly  hunting-expedition,  he  and  one 
of  his  friends  had  got  separated  from  the  rest  of 
the  company,  and  had  come  to  a  spot  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  hills  which  looked  to  them  as  if  never 
human  foot  had  trodden  it  before.  There  it  was  dim 
and  cool,  and  quite  silent  but  for  the  noise  of  streams 
and  the  fowls  of  the  air.  No  woodman's  axe  had 
ever  gleamed  among  the  trees  ;  they  were  gigantically 
high,  and  their  trunks  were  covered  with  thick  moss, 
moss  and  long  vines  hung  down  from  their  limbs ;  their 
roots  were  great  and  gnarled,  and  swelled  up  under 
the  fallen  leaves  of  many  autumns.  Under  a  rock 
among  the  tall  ferns,  in  a  den  lined  with  leaves,  the 
huntsmen  had  found  five  little  brown  things  huddled 
together,  all  sleeping.  They  had  marvelled  on  dis 
covering  what  strange  cubs  they  were,  and  had  stolen 
one  to  bring  home  to  her  for  a  pet 

5 


66  SYLVANUS. 

The  wife  leaned  back,  holding  it  close  and  rocking 
it  When  she  closed  her  eyes  it  felt  so  dearly  warm 
and  sweet  and  natural  in  the  place  that  had  been  so 
long  empty.  She  did  not  think  once  of  trying  to  re 
turn  the  little  creature  to  its  own  mother,  who  may 
have  wanted  it,  even  though  she  had  other  four. 
She  laid  it  to  sleep  that  night  in  the  curve  of  her 
arm  against  her  side;  every  time  she  woke  she 
caressed  it. 

They  called  it  Sylvanus  because  it  was  from  the 
woods. 

To  the  merchant's  mind  came  drifting  back  stories, 
read  years  before  and  almost  forgotten,  of  a  race  of 
wild  forest  people,  supposed  to  have  lived  in  that 
land  he  had  visited,  in  the  days  of  long  vanished 
gods ;  a  race  of  beings  who  had  like  this  child  long 
ears  and  little  horns  budding  on  their  foreheads 
among  the  rough  locks. 

The  merchant  never  thought  long  of  anything  that 
was  puzzling,  unless  indeed  it  were  connected  with 
money-making ;  his  wife  was  pleased  with  her  little 
monster ;  a  measure  of  peace  and  contentment  had 
come  back  into  his  home,  which  allowed  him  to  eat 
his  fat  capons  and  take  a  nap  afterward  with  an 
easy  heart :  that  was  enough  for  his  adventure  among 
the  hills  to  be  accounted  altogether  good. 

Far  beyond  the  rich  city  that  crowded  to  the  edges 
of  the  river,  arose  a  line  of  thickly  wooded  hills. 
These  looked  blue,  —  blue  and  very  far  away.  They 
turned  violet  at  evening,  then  gray ;  one  could 
scarcely  believe  that  they  were  really  clothed  with 


SYLVANUS.  67 

thick  green  waving  trees.  Probably,  even  if  Otto's 
mother  had  insisted  that  the  attempt  should  be  made, 
the  sylvan  child  could  not  have  been  put  back  in  his 
nest  among  the  ferns ;  the  huntsmen  could  not  easily 
have  found  again  that  primeval  place  so  lost  among 
the  hills,  —  if  one  there  had  been  willing  to  take  the 
long  journey  and  try. 

The  merchant's  house  stood  in  the  most  populous 
part  of  the  city,  on  the  very  edge  of  the  river.  The 
slow  dark  water  washed  its  walls,  and  showed  by  a 
green  line  how  high  it  could  sometimes  rise.  There 
were  steps  leading  down  to  it.  Up  these  came  the 
bargemen  bringing  bales  of  merchandise  from  the 
boats  below,  —  bales  that  had  a  fine  flavor  of  the  East. 
For  our  merchant  was  a  great  man  in  his  way,  and 
dealt  in  rich  stuffs  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  pre 
cious  spices  too,  gems,  and  even  birds.  In  his  vaulted 
ware-chambers  one  saw  brocades  and  beads  and 
flower-bulbs  and  pink-crested  cockatoos  ;  one  smelt 
sandalwood  and  cocoa-nuts.  His  own  prosperous 
face  was  often  seen  among  his  clerks ;  sometimes  he 
himself  bent  over  the  counter  praising  and  measuring 
off  stiff  gold  cloth  to  a  lady  of  quality  ;  but  oftenest 
he  was  to  be  found  at  his  desk  over  his  swelling  ac 
counts,  which  indeed  gave  him  enough  to  do. 

When  Sylvanus  could  walk  by  himself,  he  came 
down  into  the  warerooms  too,  and  wished  to  play  at 
hide-and-seek  among  the  rolls  of  silk  and  velvet. 
But  he  was  ordered  out  at  once :  he  was  such  a  trou 
blesome  fellow ;  he  got  into  such  unexpected  mis 
chief,  and  had  an  unpleasant  habit  of  biting  the 


68  SYLVANUS. 

hands  that  attempted  to  prevent  or  restrain  him. 
That  he  did  it  with  laughter  and  not  in  anger  did 
not  make  it  less  disagreeable  to  the  young  clerks, 
ruefully  examining  the  prints  of  his  sharp  small  teeth 
on  their  fingers  and  thumbs. 

The  only  one  who  heartily  loved  him,  who  truly 
enjoyed  his  society,  was  the  merchant's  wife,  Hild- 
gart.  She  could  scarcely  endure  that  he  should  leave 
her  sight.  She  thought  him  even  beautiful  and  sweet. 
She  gave  him  all  her  own  little  child's  things  to  play 
with.  She  clothed  him  as  richly  as  if  he  had  been  a 
nobleman's  son.  She  took  him  with  her  wherever 
she  went,  holding  his  strong  little  brown  hand  lov 
ingly  in  her  plump  white  one.  She  rejoiced  to  see 
how  straight  and  vigorous  he  was,  and,  even  though 
it  frightened  her  somewhat?  how  in  his  rough  play 
he  could  crush  and  break  and  destroy. 

Sometimes  when  the  wind  was  singing  boisterously 
among  the  gables,  unaccountably  he  would  be  seized 
with  a  wild  spirit  of  gayety  ;  nothing  could  hold  him 
then ;  he  must  dance  and  sing  his  mad  inarticulate 
songs,  roll  on  the  ground,  laugh  and  leap  and  shout, 
until  he  was  quite,  quite  tired  out. 

Hildgart  on  such  occasions  stood  helplessly  by. 
She  had  not  strength  to  seize  him  and  keep  him 
quiet,  though  he  was  but  a  few  years  old;  and  in 
those  moments  he  seemed  not  to  understand  anything 
she  said  to  him.  So,  when  his  elfish  humor  and  the 
bewildering  din  he  made  had  thoroughly  alarmed  and 
annoyed  her,  she  could  but  sit  down  and  cry.  Tears 
of  hers  always  brought  the  child  back  to  her  side, 
sobered  as  if  by  charm.  He  rubbed  his  black  head 


SYLVANUS.  69 

against  her  arm,  and  pushed  his  face  up  to  hers  until 
she  had  forgiven  him. 

She  was  not  long  learning  her  power  over  him, 
and  then  these  accesses  of  uncontrolled  animal  spirits 
became  more  and  more  rare.  The  wind  might  hum 
among  the  chimneys  ;  only  a  dancing,  restless  light 
came  into  Sylvanus's  bronze-brown  eyes.  He  turned 
them  speculatively  upon  his  foster-mother ;  seemed  to 
hesitate,  reflect,  and  remember;  then  the  restless 
light  went  out  of  his  eyes,  because  he  lowered  the 
lids  over  them ;  and  he  sat  stone-still,  getting  paler 
and  paler  with  effort,  as  he  listened  to  the  wind 
shouting  out  its  mad  suggestions. 

So  Hildgart  contrived  at  last  to  make  quite  a 
decent  little  boy  of  him,  —  a  little  boy,  except  in 
appearance,  almost  like  other  little  boys.  He  spoke 
politely,  and  did  not  tear  his  clothes  more  than  oth 
ers  of  his  age.  He  was  obliging ;  he  never  cried.  He 
even  learned  lessons,  though  that  was  a  slow  and 
sorely  trying  experience. 

But  as  Hildgart  was  able  with  a  better  conscience 
to  boast  of  his  improvement  to  Lothrich,  her  hus 
band,  to  call  him  honestly  an  obedient,  dutiful  child, 
his  splendid  strength,  which  had  been  her  pride, 
seemed  to  wane.  As  he  grew  older,  too,  and  gentler, 
he  fell  into  a  habit  of  moping. 

Lothrich,  finding  him  with  his  dispirited  head 
buried  on  his  knees,  would  shake  him  roughly,  and 
say,  "  What  is  the  matter,  lad  ?  "  "  Nothing,"  Syl- 
vanus  answered.  "  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  " 
"  Of  nothing ! "  which  always  made  Lothrich  as  in 
dignant  as  he  was  capable  of  getting.  He  would 


70  SYLVANUS. 

have  wished  to  beat  the  stupid  boy,  but  did  not  dare, 
because  his  wife  was  so  insane  as  to  have  a  regard 
for  him.  Yet  nothing  was  the  matter  that  Sylvanus 
knew;  and  he  said  truly  that  he  was  thinking  of 
nothing. 

And  now  when  his  mother's  tyrannical  tenderness 
would  leave  him  a  little  leisure,  a  little  time  to  be 
spent  out  of  the  reach  of  her  idolatrous  eyes,  he 
would  wander  through  the  house  from  attic  to  cellar. 
He  would  stand,  a  strange,  melancholy  little  figure, 
in  a  crimson  velvet  coat  stitched  with  gold  flowers, 
and  stare  for  long  minutes  through  the  leaded  panes 
that  let  in  the  daylight  so  tempered  it  seemed  to 
come  through  a  thick  sheet  of  water ;  if  the  window 
were  open,  he  would  lean  out  over  the  river,  listlessly 
watching  the  crowding  boats,  the  motley  crowd,  the 
black  water.  But  it  was  not  what  he  wanted.  He 
drew  back,  and  let  his  eyes  roam  over  the  rich  silver 
things  on  the  dresser,  and  the  painted  plates,  and  the 
carved  wood.  He  went  up  into  the  garret,  and  looked 
out  over  the  city,  —  roofs,  steeples,  smoke,  pigeons. 
He  went  down  among  the  clerks  and  wares ;  saw 
the  busy  looks,  the  shining  money.  Lothrich,  catch 
ing  sight  of  him,  shouted,  "  What  do  you  want  ? " 
"  Nothing,"  replied  Sylvanus  at  once,  and  withdrew. 
And  it  was  true ;  he  did  not  want  anything,  or 
rather,  he  did  not  know  what  it  was  he  wanted. 
But  he  went  up  and  down  the  dark,  ancient  bur 
gher's  dwelling  as  if  it  had  been  a  cage,  and  he  a  bird 
seeking  some  way  to  get  out  from  it,  —  only  that  he 
sought  for  nothing.  He  did  not  care  to  get  out  into 
the  narrow  streets ;  he  went  there  often  enough  with 


SYLVANUS.  71 

Hildgart.  They  were  no  better  to  him  than  the 
interior  of  the  house. 

Once,  spurred  by  his  unrest,  he  got  on  to  the  roof 
and  climbed  to  the  very  top  of  the  chimney. 

Then  he  saw,  stretching  beyond  the  commercial 
city  huddled  greedily  on  the  banks  of  the  murky 
river,  the  green,  green  country,  and  far  away  the 
blue  hills.  A  breath  came  straight  from  them  to 
him  that  lifted  the  hair  backward  away  from  his 
pointed  ears  and  budding  horns ;  and  with  his  curv 
ing  nostrils  expanded  in  a  sort  of  frenzy  to  seize  all 
the  balmy  meaning  of  the  breeze,  with  his  kindling 
eyes  wide  in  fascinated  wronder,  he  did  not  look  any 
more  like  the  respectable  citizen's  son  his  garb  would 
denote  him  to  be,  but  like  just  what  he  was. 

More  and  more  thirstily  still  he  gazed  and  drank 
in  the  wind ;  and  the  clouds  sailed  over  his  head, 
and  the  sunshine  poured  down  upon  him,  and  he 
saw  slow  sweet  changes  come  over  the  dreaming 
hills. 

Then  he  heard  Hildgart's  frightened,  anguished 
voice  calling  him  from  below.  And  he  descended, 
and  was  properly  scolded  and  wept  over,  and  for 
bidden  ever  to  do  sucli  a  thing  again ;  and  he  never 
did,  because  it  gave  that  loving  woman  pain. 

But  Hildgart's  trials  with  her  foster-child  were 
not  yet  at  an  end.  Soon  after  that  he  was  missing  : 
he  had  run  away.  When,  after  a  few  hours,  he  was 
brought  home,  he  seemed  unable  to  explain.  He  was 
dull  and  dejected ;  not  even  his  foster-mother's  shrill 
reproofs,  mingled  with  hysterical  rejoicing  at  his  res- 


72  SYLVAN  US. 

toration,  served  to  rouse  him.  Moved  with  a  tender 
dread,  Hildgart  would  have  him  by  her  side  at  every 
hour  of  the  weeks  that  followed ;  but  he  eluded  her 
vigilance  once  again,  and  one  fine  late  summer  even 
ing  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

When  all  search  for  him  had  proved  vain,  when 
three  long  days  and  sleepless  nights  had  not  brought 
him,  Hildgart,  who  did  love  him  as  if  he  had  been 
her  very  own,  fell  ill,  and  lay  on  her  bed  quite  dis 
tracted,  moaning  for  Sylvan  us. 

They  had  given  her  a  potion,  and  she  had  become 
quiet  at  last ;  the  woman  who  attended  her  had 
shaded  the  light  and  fallen  asleep  in  her  big  chair. 
Hildgart  lay  turned  toward  the  open  window,  be 
yond  which  was  night.  She  did  not  know  if  she 
were  awake  or  dreaming,  when  she  saw  a  face  peer 
ing  into  the  room,  —  the  face  that  of  all  the  world 
she  wanted  most  to  see.  She  held  her  arms  out 
noiselessly,  afraid  to  startle  it.  Then  it  vanished, 
and  she  thought  it  had  been  a  dream,  and  her  tears 
fell  in  heavy  drops  on  to  her  pillow. 

Behold  !  the  face  again,  still  nearer.  Was  it  really 
Sylvanus's  face,  though  ? 

She  half  rose  and  held  out  her  hands  as  before,  in 
dumb  invitation.  The  dream,  if  it  were  one,  shook 
its  head  roguishly;  she  saw  then  that  the  altered 
outline  was  due  to  a  fantastic  head-gear.  It  with 
drew  ;  but  after  a  moment  she  saw,  or  dreamed  she 
saw,  it  far  outside  dancing  in  one  long  moonbeam 
that  dropped  suddenly  from  a  cleft  in  the  clouds. 
The  moonbeam  faded  away,  and  the  little  dancing 
figure  was  lost. 


SYLVANUS.  73 

Hildgart's  heart  ached  within  her,  and  her  sob 
bing  must  be  heard  even  out  in  the  hushed  night. 
Had  it  been  heard  ?  The  face  was  again  at  the  win 
dow,  peering  in  with  a  curiously  saddened  expres 
sion.  Hildgart  this  time  -made  no  luring  gesture ; 
but  the  faint,  heart-broken  sound  of  her  weeping  fell 
shuddering  on  the  heart  of  the  night.  And  presently 
the  figure  she  had  seen  leaping  so  joyously  in  the 
slanting  silvery  light  was  at  her  side ;  a  cool  cheek 
was  crushed  against  her  own. 

But  how  altered,  how  altered  was  her  boy !  He 
looked  so  suddenly  grown  strong  and  beautiful,  she 
could  scarcely  think  he  was  the  same.  His  face  was 
flushed  with  the  sun.  His  eyes,  that  under  the 
strange,  sharply  upward-tending  brows  shone  ever 
with  the  color  of  a  sunlit  woodland  stream  flow 
ing  without  ripple  over  a  bed  of  brown  leaves,  had 
doubled  their  lustre  and  light.  His  full,  upward- 
curving  lips,  that  some  undefined  ailing  had  before 
dried  and  paled,  were  like  soft  glossy  satin,  stained 
with  a  vivid  crimson  fruit ;  his  sharp  teeth  flashed 
white  between  them  ;  his  breath  came  as  a  southern 
breeze  that  has  blown  through  the  vineyards  in 
bloom.  His  wild  hair,  thick  and  strong  as  a  black 
sheep's  fleece,  had  leaves  in  it,  and  tendrils  mixed 
with  clusters  of  grapes,  and  little  pine-cones  gleam 
ing  with  resin,  —  a  mad  wreath,  falling  off  over  one 
ear.  He  had  lost  most  of  his  garments ;  his  shoul 
ders  were  bare  and  brown,  and  cold  with  dew.  He 
brought  in  with  him  the  balmy  freshness  of  the  open 
night,  a  vivifying  odor  of  pine  and  earth,  of  hay  and 
rich  roses. 


74  SYLVAN  US. 

Hildgart  clasped  her  arms  tightly  around  him. 
"  Oh,  my  bad,  bad  darling,  you  have  broken  my 
heart ! " 

He  struggled  a  second,  and  drew  back  as  far  as  her 
hand  closed  about  his  own  would  allow  him,  look 
ing  at  her  ruefully.  "  Ah,"  he  said,  "  I  remembered 
that,  and  that  is  why  I  came."  And  as  her  tears 
flowed  more  stormily  than  before,  he  came  nearer 
again  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  glancing  softly  at 
her  from  under  his  dewy,  disordered  locks.  "  Don't 
cry,"  he  said,  "  dearest  one,  dearest !  I  will  not  go 
away  again."  And  he  lifted  his  hands  to  his  hair, 
and  in  silent  passion  tore  from  its  tangles  the  fra 
grant  leaves  and  fruits,  and  let  them  drop  on  to  the 
floor. 

Then  his  mother,  quite  comforted,  must  make  him 
relate  all  he  had  done  in  those  days.  And  the  old 
woman,  who  had  awakened,  heard,  too,  with  deep 
wonder. 

"  It  was  evening,"  he  said,  while  the  golden  light 
that  had  ebbed  from  his  great  eyes  when  lie  displaced 
his  woodland  crown  began  glowing  again  as  a  coal 
under  a  steady  breath  ;  "  I  ran,  —  I  ran  until  the 
streets  were  far  behind  me  ;  then  I  stopped  to  breathe. 
Oh,  mother,  mother,  what  the  wind  is  like  out  yon 
der  !  It  came  over  seas  of  yellow  light  and  leagues 
of  red  and  violet  clouds,  across  endless  fields  of  fresh 
green  grass,  through  thousands  of  trees.  It  called  out, 
'  Dance  !  dance  ! '  I  was  not  my  old  self  any  more, 
but  had  a  new  life.  The  blood  rushed  like  wind 
through  my  veins ;  it  swelled  my  heart  like  a  sail.  I 
was  lighter  than  a  leaf,  —  I  danced.  I  tore  up  the 


SYLVANUS.  75 

grass,  and  threw  it  in  the  air  with  clumps  of  sweet, 
cold  earth.  How  good  it  smells,  —  the  earth !  Then 
I  stretched  upon  the  ground,  and  laid  my  ear  to  it, 
and  heard  things  grow.  Oh,  a  subdued,  immense, 
unceasing  rustle,  like  a  great,  gentle  breathing  !  I 
ran  on  and  on,  dancing.  There  was  a  stream ;  tall 
reeds  grew  on  its  edges ;  the  wind  passed  through 
them,  and  they  sang,  —  they  sang  !  Broad  flowers 
floated  on  the  stream,  so  pale  in  the  moonlight.  I 
leaped  in  the  water.  I  felt  it  rush  deliciously  all 
through  my  hair,  and  close  over  me.  I  caught  at  the 
long,  smooth  stems  of  the  lilies,  and  dragged  them  up, 
—  dripping  sheaves  of  them.  I  frolicked  among  the 
reeds ;  dear  small,  cool  green  things,  with  eyes  like 
jewels,  lighted  on  my  shoulders,  —  they  were  not 
afraid  of  me.  Ah,  I  spent  a  happy  night." 

Hildgart  gazed  stupidly  at  his  excited  eyes.  The 
attendant  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  thought,  "  He 
is  crazy  ;  he  delights  in  frogs ! " 

"  And  I  came  to  fertile  fields,"  said  Sylvanus, 
"  and  vineyards.  The  branches  of  the  vines  were 
weighed  down  with  fruits,  —  some  purple  and  some 
green.  I  tore  them  from  the  stems.  I  crushed  them 
and  drank.  My  head  swam.  A  sad-souled,  patient 
bird  was  singing ;  its  notes  fell  through  the  silvery 
night  like  drops  of  dew.  I  slept,  and  dreamed  a 
wonderful,  wonderful  dream  —  " 

"  And  then  ? "  questioned  Hildgart,  for  he  had 
stopped,  and  was  looking  far  away,  beyond  the  walls 
of  the  house,  farther  than  those  of  the  city. 

"  Then  I  came  out  of  a  grove  to  the  edge  of  a  pas 
ture.  There  was  feeding  a  herd  of  beautiful  quiet 


76  SYLVANUS. 

animals.  A  graybeard  sat  under  a  tree  and  played 
on  a  reed.  I  listened.  The  music  seemed  to  speak  ; 
it  said  a  thousand  new  things,  that  however  as  soon 
as  I  heard  them  I  seemed  to  have  always  known.  I 
lay  in  the  grass,  and  scarcely  breathed.  I  crept  nearer 
and  nearer.  Then  the  herdsman  looked  around  sud 
denly,  and  saw  me  lifting  my  head  above  the  tall 
grasses  to  hear  better.  He  dropped  his  instrument 
and  fled.  I  leaped  up  and  rushed  among  the  beauti 
ful  beasts.  They  plunged  and  ran ;  their  great  eyes 
rolled.  I  sprang  on  to  the  back  of  one  ;  I  seized  his 
shining  horns,  and  we  galloped  swiftly  over  the  plain. 
Then  I  left  him  and  sprang  on  to  another.  Clots  of 
earth  were  dashed  up  from  his  hoofs,  we  tore  so 
stormily  over  the  ground.  And  the  herd,  all  lifting 
their  mighty  deep  voices,  thundered  by  our  side. 
The  earth  trembled  beneath  us.  When  I  excited  the 
brave,  panting  creatures  with  my  voice,  they  lashed 
their  silken  flanks  with  their  tasselled  tails.  That  was 
sport !  When  I  had  played  enough,  I  went  into  the 
grove  again  and  rested  among  the  ferns.  Then,  as  I 
was  half  asleep,  the  wind  blew  through  the  tree-tops  ; 
it  came  from  the  hills,  —  those  blue  hills  one  can  see 
from  our  chimney.  It  called  out,  '  Come  away  into 
the  hills  !  Come  away  into  the  hills  !'  I  rose  and 
was  following,  —  oh,  mother,  how  beautiful  it  must 
be  out  there  !  —  when  I  thought  of  you." 

"  Sylvanus,  Sylvan  us,  how  could  you  be  so  cruel  as 
to  leave  me  ? "  complained  Hildgart ;  "  you  have 
made  me  so  ill  and  unhappy.  I  see  that  you  are  a 
wild,  heartless  boy  with  evil  instincts.  You  will 
come  to  no  good.  My  affection  is  wasted  on  you." 


SYLVANUS.  77 

Sylvanus  looked  exceedingly  patient  and  sorrowful 
then.  He  lowered  his  head,  while  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  shame  and  remorse. 

"  What  could  I  do  more  for  you  than  I  do  ? "  que 
ried  Hildgart,  still  reproachful.  "  I  love  you  from 
the  deepest  of  my  heart ;  I  care  for  you  most  ten 
derly  ;  I  seek  your  good  in  all  things.  Are  you  not 
clad  and  fed  daintily  ?  And  when  we  die  will  not 
all  we  possess  become  yours  ?  You  will  be  powerful 
and  honored.  You  will  have  this  goodly  house,  and 
heavy  silver,  and  fine  linen." 

Sylvanus,  as  she  spoke,  was  looking  at  her  intently, 
as  she  at  him.  He  could  not  understand  her  any 
better  than  she  could  him.  His  unformed  thought 
was,  "  Silver  and  fine  linen,  indeed !  "  And  that  of 
the  old  woman,  who  was  again  falling  asleep  in  her 
chair,  "  Water-lilies,  forsooth  !  Smell  of  the  earth,  — 
bah  ! " 

Years  passed,  and  Sylvanus  grew  at  Hildgart's 
side.  He  was  now  quite  a  tall  lad,  and  had  a  suit 
able  demeanor.  He  had  been  instructed  in  polite 
manners  and  learning  among  other  wealthy  burghers' 
sons,  and  had  gained  even  a  measure  of  the  mer 
chant's  good-will  by  becoming  like  other  people. 

"  As  the  lad  is  no  discredit  to  us,"  the  merchant 
came  at  last  to  saying,  almost  reconciled  with  him 
self  after  years  of  dumb  rage  at  his  unpardonable 
blunder  in  meddling  with  the  woodland  family, 
"  and  we  have  no  children  of  our  own,  he  shall 
some  day  inherit  of  us;  for  my  wife  has  set  her 
heart  upon  it." 


78  SYLVANUS. 

But  it  was  not  destined  that  Sylvanus  should  be 
an  heir.  There  now  came  upon  the  vast  scene  of 
the  world  a  new  actor,  —  a  tiny,  fair-haired  child,  a 
brother  to  that  little  Otto  over  whom  the  rosebush 
had  grown  luxuriant. 

Sylvanus  saw  it  sleeping  on  Hildgart's  fair  bosom. 
He  saw  her  face  bend  over  it,  so  beautiful  and  soft 
ened  as  never  before ;  a  wild,  trembling  paiii  shot 
through  his  heart. 

It  was  the  dear,  fair  face  that  had  accompanied 
him  all  through  his  life :  he  had  seen  it  on  awaken 
ing,  he  had  seen  it  in  falling  asleep;  it  had  had 
brooding,  loving  glances  for  him  alone.  And  now 
it  appeared  to  him  more  lovely  than  ever :  the  eyes 
looked  bluer  and  sweeter  from  its  having  grown  so 
pale ;  the  flaxen  hair  he  was  used  to  see  neatly 
braided  and  fastened  fell  loosely  all  about  it  and 
upon  the  pillows.  And  she  was  not  thinking  of 
him  ;  she  was  drifting  away,  away  from  him,  on  her 
love  for  the  little  new-comer,  —  the  baby  white  and 
soft  like  herself,  and  like  the  long-ago,  the  unfor- 
gotteu  child  Otto. 

Sylvanus  felt  how  he  was  too  big  now  to  nestle  up 
to  her  as  he  had  used  to  do ;  but  he  crept  near,  and 
laid  his  rough  head  against  her  arm.  Then,  as  she 
was  scarcely  aware  of  him  at  first,  he  laid  his  hand 
on  the  baby  under  her  eyes ;  but  his  hand  looked  so 
brown,  so  darkly  brown  and  sinewy,  that  he  drew  it 
back  quickly,  almost  frightened. 

"  Is  not  he  a  pretty  child  ? "  said  Hildgart.  "  See 
how  fat  and  white  his  little  dimpled  fists  are  ! " 

Sylvanus   fled   from   her  presence   and    into   the 


SYLVANUS.  79 

street.  He  wandered  haphazard  for  several  hours. 
He  chanced  upon  a  crowd;  there  floated  to  him, 
over  the  heads  of  men  and  women,  the  sound  of  a 
musical  instrument.  He  stopped  to  listen,  too,  to 
the  street-singer. 

"  Oh,  ho  ! "  sang  the  street-singer,  "  the  joyous  life 
in  the  woodland  hills  !  There  live  Pan  and  his  strong 
faun-sons ;  there  live  the  dryads  and  the  light-footed 
oreades.  These  twist  long  leaves  in  the  coils  of  their 
sweet-smelling  hair,  and  dance  with  the  brown  fauns  ; 
while  Pan  sits  on  a  mossy  rock  and  pipes  to  them  a 
lay,  never  twice  the  same.  He  pipes  on  a  green 
reed,  and  the  curious  deer  come  tripping  over  the 
rustling  leaves;  and  the  spotted  hinds,  the  light  little 
fawns  draw  near  to  listen,  with  one  glistening  black 
hoof  lifted  from  the  ground.  The  wild  beasts  come 
too,  made  harmless  as  the  deer  are  fearless,  because 
the  music  has  charmed  them.  They  lie  in  circle, 
with  their  heavy  muzzles  resting  on  their  paws,  and 
their  tawny  eyes  fixed  upon  the  god.  And  the  fauns 
and  dryads  dance.  Oh,  ho  ! "  sang  the  street-singer, 
"  the  free  life  in  the  woodland  hills  ! " 

And  on  and  on  he  sang  to  the  staring  city-folk  of 
the  deep-breathing  wind  in  mid-forest,  of  the  hidden 
crystal  fountains,  of  the  joyous  chase,  the  spotted 
skins  hung  over  a  young  faun's  shoulders,  the  chest 
nuts  bursting  from  their  burrs. 

He  moved  on.  The  crowd  followed  him  awhile  as 
he  went  singing  down  the  street,  but  soon  grew  thin 
ner  and  melted  away.  The  sun  had  set,  the  air  was 
becoming  chill,  the  good  citizens  must  be  about  their 
business. 


80  SYLVANUS. 

Sylvanus  followed  still;  his  heart  was  throbbing 
as  once  of  old.  He  caught  up  with  the  singer,  —  a 
slender,  agreeable,  hungry-looking  young  mortal,  with 
flowing  locks,  a  tattered  cloak  that  hung  down  to  the 
dust,  and  a  bunch  of  ribbons  fastened  on  to  the 
stringed  instrument  he  carried  by  a  strap  over  his 
shoulder.  He  had  ceased  singing,  and  was  walking 
along  with  his  head  thrown  back,  staring  up  at  a 
melting  sunset  cloud. 

"Sing  more!"  pleaded  Sylvanus,  laying  his  hand 
on  the  bard's  shabby  sleeve, — "  more,  more  about  the 
woods  and  the  wind ! " 

The  bard  stopped  and  looked  at  Sylvanus.  The 
light  was  becoming  uncertain,  but  he  could  still  dis 
tinguish  the  citizen's  rich  garb,  the  silver  clasps  on  his 
mantle,  the  plume  in  his  cap ;  he  could  see  his  strange, 
dark  face.  He  broke  out  laughing,  and  said :  "  You 
are  a  faun  yourself,  are  n't  you  ?  You  have  only  to 
show  me  the  pointed  ears  for  me  to  be  able  to  affirm 
that  here,  in  a  civilized  country,  in  this  late  century, 
—  so  long  since  the  old  gods  passed  away  !  —  I  saw 
one  evening  (and  not  on  a  door-knocker  either,  nor 
a  gargoyle,  but  in  a  crimson  cloth  suit  right  prettily 
slashed)  a  faun,  —  a  real,  sunburned,  belated  child 
of  Pan ! " 

In  this  wise  was  first  hinted  to  Sylvanus  the  secret 
of  his  birth. 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  may  be  a  faun,"  said  Hildgart ; 
"  though  I  had  thought  they  were  a  pure  invention 
of  the  poets.  I  have  said  so  many  times  that  you 
are  a  child  of  gypsies,  found  on  our  doorstep  on  a 


SYLVANUS.  81 

day  after  that  dark,  wandering  people  had  been  seen 
passing  through  the  city,  that  I  truly  believe  it,  ex 
cept  I  stop  to  think.  But  the  truth  is  you  were 
brought  from  the  deep  woods,  Sylvanus,  where  Loth- 
rich  found  you  in  a  cave  at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  That 
day  I  had  noticed  the  reflection  of  my  face  in  the 
mirror,  how  ill  I  looked  and  likely  to  die,  and  I  had 
been  pleased  at  the  thought.  But  when  you  came  I 
cared  to  live,  for  I  loved  you  like  my  own  flesh  and 
blood.  And  I  have  been  a  good  mother  to  you ;  and 
it  has  been  much  better  for  you  than  the  woods, 
where  everything  is  wild.  Yes,  I  have  loved  you 
dearly.  Still,  I  am  glad  to  have  a  child  of  my  own 
too.  One  loves  that  like  nothing  else ;  and  when  it 
is  passionate  and  sullen,  —  as  you  sometimes  are,  dear, 
though  on  the  whole  such  a  dutiful  child,  —  one  for 
gives  it  more  easily,  because  one  is  obliged  to  think 
perhaps  it  inherits  its  defects  from  one's  self.  But  I 
don't  imagine  this  child  will  be  anything  but  gentle 
and  sweet,  —  do  you  ?  Look  at  it  now  !  "  And  she 
kissed  it  adoringly.  "  Why  are  you  so  troubled  ?  If 
it  is  Lothrich  and  his  manner  to  you  lately,  you  need 
not  care  for  that,  dear  child.  He  is  jealous  for  Otto. 
He  is  afraid  that  my  affection  for  you  will  make  me 
unjust  to  our  own  son.  But  as  long  as  I  am  here  to 
uphold  your  rights,  you  need  not  fear  but  he  will 
treat  you  as  he  should.  Many  a  struggle  have  we 
had  already  on  your  account ;  but  I  have  always  pre 
vailed,  and  shall  still  have  my  way.  You  are  my 
son,  too,  after  all,  and  will  be  a  good  elder  brother  to 
this  little  one.  Dear  me !  it  will  be  so  delightful 
when  I  get  well  again ! " 

6 


82  SYLVANUS. 

Yes,  Sylvanus  thought  it  would  be  delightful  in 
deed  when  she  got  well.  But  day  after  day  went  by, 
and  still  she  was  not  well,  still  not  strong  nor  rosy. 
An  added  shade  of  anxiety  came  into  Lothrich's  face 
on  seeing  her  so  transparent  and  languid  while  the 
second  Otto  throve  and  grew;  but  he  had  much 
anxiety  beside  in  those  days. 

And  now  came  a  time  when  Hildgart  might  be 
glad  of  Sylvanus's  dark  strong  hands  to  uphold  her 
gently  in  the  days  of  declining.  They  lengthened 
themselves  into  several  long  years,  but  came  no  less 
surely  to  an  end. 

"  Dear  God  !  "  she  sighed,  "  to  leave  my  little  child 
like  this,  and  no  one  to  love  him  as  I  should,  —  with 
his  own  father  gone  mad,  and  imperilling  his  sub 
stance  in  distracted  ventures !  Oh,  Sylvanus,  do  you 
promise  to  be  faithful  and  tender  to  my  poor  little 
Otto,  as  you  have  ever  been  to  me ;  for  he  will  need 
friends,  I  much  fear." 

So  she  went  away  from  among  the  living,  and  Syl 
vanus  must  continue  in  the  house  where  she  had 
dwelt. 

He  was  not  an  honored  and  cherished  son  now ; 
he  was  only  tolerated,  —  and  at  such  a  price  !  He 
might  be  seen  carrying  the  bales  from  the  boats  up 
the  slimy  stone  stairs,  and  doing  all  that  was  required 
of  a  servant.  Early  and  late  he  worked  to  deserve 
bread  and  the  shelter  of  that  roof  which  had  covered 
her,  —  patient  of  everything,  so  he  might  be  in  easy 
reach  of  her  child,  to  do  him  service. 

No  less,  every  night,  lying  on  his  poor  pallet,  lie 
dreamed  of  the  distant  hills. 


SYLVANUS.  83 

Years  went  by,  —  many  years. 

Otto  himself  was  a  youth  now,  —  a  slender,  hand 
some  youth,  with  curling  hair  that  caught  the  sunshine 
and  flashed  it  back.  He  was  light-hearted,  he  was  gay. 
He  had  many  companions,  and  a  jolly  life  they  made 
of  it.  One  little  drawback  there  was,  however,  to  his 
full  enjoyment  of  this  earth's  pleasures,  and  it  was 
that  dark,  melancholy  servant  of  his  father's,  —  God 
rest  his  soul,  poor  father !  though  he  was  a  foolish 
man,  who  in  his  ambition  to  double  his  son's  fortune 
came  near  wrecking  it,  —  that  dark  servant,  with  his 
continual  good  counsel  and  his  untiring  attempts  to 
keep  him,  Otto,  out  of  mischief.  Why  was  he  young, 
good-looking,  and  had  his  purse  full  of  gold,  if  he  was 
not  to  amuse  himself?  As  for  poor  Sylvanus,  he  had 
been  devoted  to  Sylvanus  when  he  was  still  a  little 
boy,  —  one  must  own  that  Sylvanus  was  more  oblig 
ing  than  any  one  else,  —  but  it  really  seemed  pre 
sumptuous  in  the  fellow  to  suppose  that  he  could 
influence  one  when  he  was  almost  getting  a  beard. 
Sylvanus  was  becoming  a  bore,  and  Otto  must  let 
him  know  what  he  thought  of  it. 

Oh  the  blue  hills  far  away,  how  inviting  they 
looked  !  Why  should  one  not  flee  to  them,  and  rest 
from  drudgery  for  a  thankless  world ;  feel  one's  youth 
come  back  to  one  with  every  fresh  inspiration  of  the 
pure  wind  ;  feel  one's  strength,  wasted  with  home 
sickness  and  nightly  longing,  return  with  every 
draught  from  the  ice-cold  springs ;  find  one's  own 
kin,  perhaps,  —  strong,  brown  brothers  ?  Oh  the 
beckoning  hills  !  Oh,  what  the  wind  said  in  its  sing 
ing  over  the  house  ! 


84  SYLVANUS. 

"  But  I  cannot  leave  him  now ! "  replied  Sylvanus's 
sick  heart ;  "  he  is  fast  bringing  on  ruin  to  himself, 
he  will  need  me  then.  There  are  a  thousand  duties 
to  tie  me  down  here.  O  wind,  I  cannot  come ! " 

Once,  indeed,  it  seemed  too  much  to  bear  that 
stripling's  wrong-hearted  insolence,  and  the  old-grown 
faun  had  almost  forsaken  him.  But  when  he  had 
passed  through  the  city  gate  on  his  way  to  the  hills, 
—  the  hills  ever  calling  him  with  their  powerful,  still 
voices,  ever  drawing  him  to  themselves  with  chains 
as  subtle  as  those  by  which  the  sky  draws  back  from 
earth  the  rain,  —  a  sense  came  to  him,  as  if  he  were 
his  old  childish  self  fleeing  once  more  as  long  ago 
from  the  merchant's  house,  the  narrowness  of  which 
cramped  him  so,  oppressed  him  for  breath ;  and 
through  his  extravagant  delight  at  freedom  returned 
the  haunting  pain  of  something  left  behind,  some  one 
needing  him,  grieving  while  he  made  himself  merry. 

Ah,  Hildgart,  so  long  now  in  her  grave ! 

So  the  faun  turned  back.  He  passed  under  the 
city  gate  bowed  and  dragging  his  foot.  He  would  re 
member  how  young  and  foolish  Otto  was,  how  dear  he 
had  been  ;  he  would  not  think  of  him  that  he  was  un 
grateful,  but  that  his  eyes  were  very  like  those  that 
once  looked  so  kindly  upon  himself.  For  the  sake 
of  being  able  to  serve  him  when  the  day  came  that 
Hildgart's  child  should  need  him,  —  and  the  day  was 
near,  he  feared !  —  he  must  be  very  patient.  Why 
had  they  quarrelled  that  morning  ?  He  had  tried  to 
save  the  mad  young  man  from  the  serpent-charmer's 
daughter,  who  would  be  his  bane  if  he  believed  her. 


SYLVANUS.  85 

Well,  he  must  return  and  make  other  efforts  to  save 
him ;  but  not  forsake  him,  even  if  all  attempts  to 
clear  his  vision  proved  vain.  How  much  more  would 
he  need  a  stanch  adherent  when  fallen  irremediably 
into  the  hands  of  that  heartless  girl ! 

But  Sylvanus  ill  calculated  his  power  in  opposition 
to  the  serpent-charmer's  daughter.  When  she  came 
to  the  reign,  full  of  arts  and  wiles  as  she  was,  beauti 
ful  as  a  crimson-flowering  weed,  and  determined  that 
the  unfriendly  faun  who  had  accused  her  should  go, 
his  term  of  service,  spite  of  his  long-suffering,  his 
selfless  devotion,  was  indeed  over.  It  was  Otto  him 
self  who  bade  him  go. 

And  now  once  more  he  passed  through  the  city 
gates.  As  he  came  farther  into  the  open  country,  the 
bitterness  lessened  from  his  soul.  Farewell,  old  life ! 
all  was  said  and  done  with  it.  Let  him  forget  it  all, 
but  most  the  ingratitude  of  man.  Let  Otto  find 
what  compensation  he  might  for  the  loss  of  a  friend 
in  the  sea-green  eyes  of  his  bride,  —  away  with  all 
sorrow  for  Otto ! 

For  the  hills !  for  the  hills !  And  he  hurried 
toward  them. 

How  often  had  he  dreamed  of  this,  —  this  freedom 
to  return  whither  he  chose  !  He  had  not  the  strength 
now  nor  the  lightness  of  foot  to  speed  on  as  once  he 
could  have  sped ;  it  would  take  longer  to  reach  that 
faint-blue  mass  against  the  horizon  and  his  home 
beyond ;  but  once  there,  would  it  not  seem  as  good 
as  it  could  ever  have  seemed  before  ?  Would  he  not 
revel  in  it  all,  then  ?  Would  he  not  join  madly  in 


86  SYLVANUS. 

those  scenes  the  strolling  poet  had  described,  dance 
and  leap  with  the  other  fauns  and  the  playful 
nymphs,  satiate  himself  at  last  with  sun  and  air  and 
green  shadow,  smells  of  the  forest,  music,  chill  crystal 
streams,  —  freedom  ? 

Dance  and  leap  and  enjoy  ?  Could  he  do  that 
still,  —  could  he  ? 

He  dropped  down  to  rest  with  his  face  to  the  sky 
streaked  with  bars  of  rosy  vapor,  —  beautiful  sky  ! 
How  tired  he  was  !  He  had  been  travelling  so  many 
hours,  and  the  hills  looked  as  distant  as  ever.  Ah ! 
but  he  had  all  his  life  before  him  now  in  which  to 
reach  them,  and  after  a  brief  station  among  them  for 
rest,  the  southern  land  that  lay  beyond  them,  the 
land  of  his  birth.  There  was  no  need  of  hurrying  so 
breathlessly. 

All  his  life,  —  all  that  was  left  over  of  a  faun's  life 
after  so  many  years  spent  away  from  all  his  nature 
required ;  spent  in  a  narrow  house  without  air,  in  a 
warehouse  without  sunlight,  over  tasks  that  made 
the  irritated  nerves  sicken  and  twitch,  under  con 
ditions  that  made  the  heart,  subdued,  rankle  in  its 
chains.  Was  he  not  stunted,  wasted,  and  bowed 
already,  like  the  aged  and  ailing  ? 

The  faun  rose  hurriedly,  and  travelled  on  at  once 
in  the  fading  day. 

It  was  well  for  those  who  had  an  abundance  of 
time  to  sit  down  in  pleasant  grassy  places  and  rest. 
He  should  rest  only  afterward,  when  he  sat  among 
his  own,  in  the  heart  of  the  hills.  Would  not  the 
nymphs  then  plait  him  a  wreath  of  ivy  and  bay  that 
should  lie  on  his  temples  coolly,  and  Pan  himself  give 


SYLVANUS.  87 

him  from  his  striped  gourd  a  draught  that  should 
restore  him  ?  What  happy  laughter  then,  what  care 
less  ease  on  a  bed  of  ferns! 

But  there  was  need  for  turning  every  faculty  to 
haste,  for  was  he  not  pursued  ?  Was  it  not  ad 
vancing  with  long,  swift,  silent  strides,  —  the  name 
less  fear,  the  unknown  foe  ?  If  it  should  overtake 
him  before  ho  gained  the  hills !  How  far  they  were 
still,  —  those  hills !  how  blue  still,  so  that  one  could 
never  believe,  no,  that  they  were  really  clothed  with 
green  waving  trees ! 

Tt  overtook  him  before  he  reached  them,  even 
while  they  were  still  quite  blue. 

"  But  it  is  not  I  alone,"  sighed  Sylvauus,  lying  in 
the  grass  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the  beloved  hills,  when 
the  bitterness  of -the  struggle  was  past,  and  the 
enemy  after  he  had  overcome  him  had  smoothed  the 
frown  of  pain  and  anger  away  from  his  brow  and  set 
there  peace  instead,  as  if  almost  he  had  been  a  friend. 
"  I  have  seen  it  many  times  in  that  city  where  I 
lived.  The  faces  of  the  men  and  women  told  it. 
They  were  not  fauns,  like  me,  but  their  story  was  like 
mine." 

The  sun  looked  down  most  gently  and  mournfully 
into  his  face.  It  seemed  as  if  the  grass,  when  the 
wind  blew  it  against  his  cheek,  were  a  caress  from  a 
hand  as  loving  as  Hildgart's. 

"Would  it  seem  a  sweeter  or  a  bitterer  story," 
went  on  Sylvanus  vaguely,  still  with  his  dark  sad 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  hills,  the  never  to  be  reached, 
"  if  the  fauns  should  tell  it  to  one  another  when  the 


88  SYLVANUS. 

nightingale's  song  has  made  them  serious,  —  sweeter 
or  bitterer  than  stories  of  fauns  who  could  do  their 
own  pleasure  ? " 

A  fine  sigh  passed  through  the  grass,  and  died 
across  his  lips.  A  brown  bird  flew  down  and  nestled 
fearlessly  against  him,  its  little  heart  fluttering  warm 
on  liis  throat ;  the  sunlight  cooled,  and  grew  dim,  and 
went  out. 

Then,  oh,  hark !  the  voice  of  the  wind  from  the 
hills,  —  or,  no,  not  really  the  wind's  voice,  but  Pan's 
reed. 

Is  he  not  sitting  among  the  fauns,  piping  to  them  ? 
Have  they  not  paused  in  their  frolics  to  listen  ?  Just 
as  the  strolling  poet  said,  —  the  little  does  come 
through  the  rustling  leaves,  and  stare  with  their 
great  moist  eyes ;  the  fiercest  brutes  lie  about  with 
their  heads  on  their  harmless  paws  ;  the  dryads  draw 
nearer  as  he  tells  them  of  it  in  his  song.  Their  faces 
are  uplifted ;  tear-drops  run  over  their  lashes,  down 
the  thornless  roses  of  their  cheeks  paled  with  tender- 
est  pity :  not  a  faun  but  has  ceased  to  laugh.  "  Is  it 
a  sweeter  or  a  bitterer  story  ? "  says  the  music  at 
last.  "  Is  it  a  sweeter  or  a  bitterer  story  ? "  as  it  grows 
fainter,  and  all  fades. 

Hark !  Did  not  the  answer  come  as  through  tears, 
"Oh,  sweeter!  oh,  sweeter!" 


THE    SONS    OF    PHILEMON. 


THE   SONS  OF  PHILEMON. 

'THWO   women  who   had  long  been  absent  from 

-L  each  other  sat  in  the  deepening  light  of  the 
afternoon,  going  over  old  common  memories  to 
gether,  and  relating  the  events  of  the  latter  years. 

They  had  not  been  loving  friends  nor  even  well 
known  to  each  other  before.  The  difference  in  years 
had  seemed  greater ;  yet  now  each  proved  a  calm 
sweetness  in  the  neighborhood  of  one  who  had  seen 
her  younger,  fairer,  who  had  been  familiar,  perhaps, 
with  friends  long  dead. 

Both  women  were  past  their  best  youth.  Auge, 
the  older,  was  growing  gray ;  her  face  showed  lines 
of  fretful  care ;  she  stooped  a  little,  and  her  voice  in 
talking  of  any  matter,  even  cheerful,  had  a  faintly 
complaining  ring.  She  leaned  forward,  both  hands 
on  the  head  of  her  staff.  Her  garments  were  of  a 
sober  color ;  one  end  of  her  mantle  was  cast  over 
her  head  and  framed  her  face,  shading  it  as  a  hood. 

Antiope's  hair  was  still  dark  and  thick.  Her  age 
was  divined  more  from  the  noble  serenity  of  her  face 
than  from  any  trace  on  it  of  Time's  deflowering  finger. 
She  was  tall  and  straight  and  powerfully  moulded. 
Her  face  was  severe  in  its  purity  of  line  and  color ; 
its  only  softness  dwelt  in  the  broad,  dark,  fine  eye, 


92  THE  SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

when  that  listened,  encouraged,  invited  to  confi 
dence.  Her  whole  bearing  breathed  a  culm  and 
seemly  pride. 

Sitting  on  the  stone  seat  near  her  own  threshold, 
she  was  bareheaded  and  without  mantle.  Her  white 
garment  fell  in  close,  straight  folds  down  over  her 
feet.  The  mellowing  sunshine  was  full  on  her  smooth, 
bronzed  face ;  she  shaded  her  eyes,  and  looked  in 
quiringly  down  in  the  valley  where  Auge's  finger 
directed. 

The  citadel  gleamed  white  on  its  rock ;  between 
olives  and  cypress-trees  showed  the  little  city, 
red  and  white ;  the  river  was  a  narrow,  silvery 
ribbon. 

"  Do  you  see  the  house  ?  "  asked  Auge,  still  point 
ing.  "  I  cannot  see  it  myself,  but  it  should  be  there, 
—  there,  a  little  outside  the  crowd,  near  the  river. 
No  ?  Well,  it  is  a  fair  enough  house  within,  if  it 
were  well  ordered ;  with  a  large,  cool  court,  —  if  it 
were  not  that  doves  are  suffered  in  the  court,  and  are 
forever  drinking  at  the  basin,  and  green  vines  are  al 
lowed  to  grow  up  the  little  white  pillars,  alluring 
insects.  Well,  so  it  will  be  ever  when  the  whims  of 
the  young  are  consulted  before  the  experience  of  the 
old." 

"The  young  Philotis  is  mistress  in  her  father's 
house  ?  "  asked  Antiope. 

"  Well-a-day  !  But  this  is  not  the  beginning  of  it. 
She  has  been  mistress  since  the  hour  her  mother 
was  carried  out  of  it,  and  then  she  stood  scarce  thus 
high.  She  governs  her  father,  and  is  herself  gov 
erned —  oh,  not  by  me,  as  you,  perhaps,  might  think  ; 


THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON.  93 

me,  who  nursed  her  and  reared  her,  watching  her  in 
illness  as  never  a  mother,  —  not  by  me,  but  fancies 
light  as  the  little  clouds  you  see  a  moment,  then  they 
are  gone,  or  else  when  you  look  again  they  have 
grown  into  huge  things  big  with  bad  weather,  — you 
can  never  tell.  Her  father  is  to  blame.  If  he  would 
but  listen  to  me  !  Judge  yourself,  my  Antiope,  of 
that  man's  weakness.  We  lived  by  the  sea,  —  the 
proper  place  for  us,  where  his  heavy-laden  ships  come 
in.  Our  days  went  sweetly,  one  much  like  another, 
among  good  neighbors,  with  plenty.  My  affections 
had  twined  around  every  stone  of  our  dwelling.  One 
day  Philotis  says  she  suffers  from  bad  dreams,  it 
must  be  the  fault  of  the  sea,  she  would  wish  not  to 
hear  any  more  of  its  solemn  sighing  and  sobbing. 
Lycaon  comforts  her ;  gives  her  lavishly  of  things  too 
fine,  unfit  for  a  young  maid.  The  next  day  she  tells 
again  of  bad  dreams,  and  wishes  to  go  elsewhere,  — 
anywhere,  away  from  the  tiresome  voice  of  the  sea. 
So  every  day  she  complains,  and  looks  longingly  at 
the  hills  ;  she  grows  pale  with  ill-temper  and  discon 
tent.  And  in  the  end  she  has  her  will,  —  as  she  has 
had  since  she  could  frame  words.  And  now  we  dwell 
down  yonder  in  the  house  you  cannot  see,  though  it 
should  be  plain  enough." 

"  And  the  girl  has  recovered  ?  " 
Auge  made  a  slight  sound  of  contempt. 
"She  was  never  ill.     But  if  you  mean  does  she 
laugh  and  talk  all  day,  and  is  she  full  of  foolish 
pranks  as  a  young  cat,  I  warrant  you !    This  new  life 
pleases  her  vastly.     She  is  ever  dragging  me  forth 
with  her  when  I  would  wish  to  be  quiet  at  home. 


94  THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

To  the  market-place,  to  the  temple,  to  look  on  at  the 
racers  and  the  wrestlers,  —  not  but  that  I,  too,  love 
that,  —  and  disc-casting.  But  to  be  tripping  after 
her  like  an  old  dog,  pantiug  to  keep  pace  with  her 
light  young  feet  (and  it  is  not  seemly  that  a  young 
girl  be  seen  abroad  so  much,  as  I  have  told  her  father 
a  thousand  times) ;  to  be  sent  on  mad  errands  —  " 

"  On  mad  errands  ?  Now,  that  seems  too  much. 
Why  do  you  go  when  she  bids  you  ?  Father  and 
daughter  surely  owe  you  for  all  your  kind  offi 
ces  consideration  enough  to  take  account  of  your 
objections." 

Antiope  had  thought  to  do  a  thing  agreeable  to 
Auge  in  taking  her  part  against  Philotis  and  that 
spoiled  girl's  father.  But, — 

"  You  do  not  understand,  Antiope,"  said  Auge, 
promptly^  "  You  do  not  understand  at  all.  It  is  be 
cause  she  knows  how  much  I  love  her,  because  she 
knows  that  I  willingly  do  whatever  may  please  her. 
Ah,  these  children  of  ours  !  Those  who  have  no 
children  will  never  understand  how  it  is  with  us ! " 

Antiope  could  not  buc  smile  a  little  scornfully  at 
these  words.  Her  sons  were  her  own,  bone  of  her 
bone.  Her  face  assumed  its  expression  of  contented 
mother-pride. 

"  Where  are  your  sons  ? "  asked  Auge,  suddenly, 
after  a  silence  during  which  each  woman  had  been 
looking  over  the  valley,  thinking  the  thoughts 
nearest  her  heart. 

"  A-hunting." 

"  Will  they  not  soon  be  home  ?  I  would  wish  to 
see  them  nearer  and  speak  to  them.  The  image  of 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  95 

Philemon  still  lives  in  my  eye.  Tell  me,  Antiope,  if 
your  griefs  have  so  healed  over  that  you  can  speak 
of  his  death  with  patience,  —  how  did  he  come,  the 
strong  and  goodly  man,  to  die  as  he  did  in  the  flower 
of  life  ? " 

"  An  adder  stung  him  in  the  foot,"  Antiope  re 
plied  briefly,  and  without  visible  emotion.  Then 
she  proceeded  in  measured  tones,  as  if  she  were  say 
ing  aloud  a  thing  that  she  had  said  over  many  times 
to  herself :  "  He  has  perished  ;  his  flesh  is  ashes.  Yet 
he  lives,  —  on  and  on.  That  which  was  best  in  him 

—  his  justice,  his  integrity,  his  kindliness  —  I  meet 
with  every  day  in  my  sons.     Even  his  goodliness  of 
feature  and  form  is  not  lost.      Biton  looks  at  me 
with  his  deep,  cairn  eye ;  Attys  speaks  to  me  with 
his  voice.     Both  have  his  dauntless  heart.     So  is  a 
good  man  immortal  even  on  earth  :  his   spns'  sons 
shall  tell  the  world  of  him.      I  am  blessed  in  my 
children,"  she  added,  with  a  tender  interruption  in 
her  even  voice. 

"  Yes,  they  are  goodly  and  strong,  like  their  father, 
as  you  say,"  owned  Auge  ;  "  I  hear  reports  of  them 
wherever  I  go.  They  are  foremost  in  every  contest, 

—  swiftest  in  the  race,  most  enduring  in  the  march  ; 
they  overcome  the  stoutest  wrestlers  ;  they  cast  the 
disc  and  spear  farthest  of  any ;  their  honor  is  truly 
great." 

"  And  to  such  prowess  they  unite  such  gentleness," 
said  Antiope,  with  eager  fervor ;  "  they  so  love  me, 
and  so  love  each  other.  You  think,  perhaps,  that 
being  so  full  of  valor  and  skill,  they  are  proud  and 
testy,  —  many  brave  youths  are.  Not  so.  Bitou 


96  THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

obeys  my  least  behest ;  Attys  reads  my  wish  in  my 
eye."  And  the  proud,  reserved  Antiope,  betrayed  by 
Auge's  sympathetic,  listening  face  into  the  weakness 
of  the  commonest  woman,  related  untiringly  in 
stances  of  her  sons'  virtues,  —  their  frankness,  gener 
osity,  filial  and  brotherly  devotion.  She  told  touching 
stories  of  their  childhood,  the  reckless  ventures  and 
escapes  of  their  growing  days ;  said  her  hopes  and 
fears,  quoted  golden  opinions  uttered  by  such  as  were 
not  prejudiced,  as  perhaps  Auge  would  think  her. 

The  sun  declined  to  the  hill  while  she  spoke. 

"  Happy  !  happy !  "  exclaimed  Auge,  who  had 
drawn  nearer  and  nearer,  as  if  warming  herself  at 
the  heat  of  Antiope's  great  mother-love.  "  And  tell 
me,  does  not  your  heart  fail  you,"  she  said,  dropping 
her  voice,  "  when  they  go  forth  to  war  ?  —  as  in  these 
days  every  man  does  frequently  in  these  parts,  I  am 
told,  and  chiefly  against  redoubted  Charpedon  beyond 
these  mountains.  I  should  think  that  the  day  they 
set  forth  would  be  for  you  an  evil  day  to  bear.  The 
thought  of  that  day  would  almost  persuade  me,  if  I 
had  a  sou,  to  bring  him  up  as  a  maiden.  Are  yo'u  not 
tempted,  Antiope,  to  wish  away  from  their  ears  all 
dangerous  rumors  of  war  ? " 

"  Not  so,"  replied  Antiope,  constant!}' ;  "  I  would 
rather  they  were  dead  than  inglorious.  But  it  seems 
to  me  when  they  are  away  as  if  my  never-sleeping 
love  brooding  over  them  must  be  a  charm  to  keep 
them  safe.  I  do  not  believe,  Auge,  but  that  all  will 
be  well  with  them  until  my  eyes  are  closed.  I  have 
no  fears.  I  have  asked  nothing  of  the  gods  but  my 
sons'  good,  and  the  just  gods  owe  me  somewhat  for 


THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON.  97 

many  pious  offerings  and  several  afflictions  patiently 
endured." 

"  You  think  that  to  ask  for  your  sons'  good  is  to 
ask  little  for  yourself,"  spoke  Auge,  with  a  doubtful 
laugh.  "  Perhaps  that  is  more  than  long  life  with 
peace  and  plenty  and  health.  The  value  of  a  gift  is 
measured  by  the  receiver's  need.  You  are  too  fortu 
nate,  Antiope,  though  perhaps  you  do  not  know  it : 
you  possess  your  sons'  undivided  love.  What  shall 
you  do  now  when  they  take  wives  ? " 

She  listened  curiously. 

"  That  has  to  come.  I  have  felt  it  coming,"  said 
Antiope.  "I  have  schooled  myself  to  accept  the 
thought.  I  shall  always  have  been  their  first  and 
greatest  friend.  They  will  not  forget  it.  Nothing 
can  change  that.  Their  wives  shall  be  welcome. 
Whom  they  love  must  be  dear  also  to  me." 

"My  wise,  wise  Antiope,  I  vow  that  was  well 
spoken,  though  I  could  not  be  so  patient  myself. 
Now,  since  I  see  your  mind  so  disposed,  I  will  tell 
you  something,  —  something,"  she  added  with  a  mys 
terious  smile,  "that  may  perhaps  pertain  to  this  ques 
tion.  Perhaps,  I  said.  Has  Biton  spoken  to  you  of 
any  maiden  ?  No.  Well,  it  was  but  a  little  thing. 
A  few  days  ago,  when  he  carried  off  the  prize  for 
running,  we  were  watching  the  contest.  As  the 
runners  passed  us,  Philotis,  looking  in  rapt  attention, 
opened  her  hand,  and  the  wind  blew  a  red  flower  she 
held  into  the  path.  Biton,  though  hard  pressed,  bent, 
—  not  hurriedly  to  snatch,  but  easily  with  a  touch 
full  of  grace  and  respect,  —  and  gathered  up  the  blos 
som,  winning  the  goal  first,  nevertheless.  Since  that 

7 


98  THE  SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

Philotis  can  talk  of  nothing  but  Biton,  Biton,  Biton ; 
and  when  she  heard  me  boast  that  I  knew  his  mother 
of  old,  nothing  would  satisfy  her  but  that  I  should 
corne  to-day  and  renew  the  acquaintance.  Do  not 
think,  however,  that  I  would  not  have  come  unbidden. 
I  can  value  an  old  friendship." 

"Biton  said  nothing,"  spoke  Antiope,  dreamily; 
then,  with  assurance  :  "  He  saw  but  a  crimson  flower, 
and  not  the  maiden  who  dropped  it.  He  stopped  for 
it  only  to  show  his  fleetness  thereafter.  I  am  sorry 
if  your  charge  thinks  of  him  overmuch.  Auge,  it 
were  good  advice,  bid  her  look  at  men  who  look 
at  her." 

"  That  was  not  quite  all,"  said  Auge,  with  rising 
indignation.  "He  had  the  flower  in  his  hand  long 
after,  smelling  of  it,  and  casting  on  the  one  from 
whose  small  fair  hand  it  fell  long  glances.  A  bold 
and  steady  eye  has  your  son,  —  an  eye  that  knows 
its  mind ;  and  when  a  pink-footed  dove,  Philotis' 
favorite,  flew  out  over  the  court,  and  she  came  forth 
to  lure  it  back,  Bitou  was  there  —  where  mayhap  he 
had  been  keeping  lover's  watch  —  to  assist  her  in  re 
capturing  it ;  and  that  no  later  than  yesterday." 

"Auge,"  replied  Antiope,  with  recovered  serenity, 
"  let  us  not  speak  bitterly.  If  Biton  loves,  I  have  no 
fear  but  he  will  tell  his  mother  of  it.  Then  will  be 
time  to  provide  further.  What  you  have  said  of 
Philotis  makes  me  think  but  lightly  of  her ;  yet  I 
will  not  rashly  judge." 

"  To  say  that  she  is  fanciful  and  of  a  merry  dis 
position  !  Youth  is  the  sweeter  for  not  being  serious 
and  sad.  I  never  fear  that  speaking  of  Philotis  as 


THE  SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  99 

she  is  will  do  her  injury.  She  bears  what  justifies 
all  her  deeds  even  in  her  blooming  face,  the  fairest 
in  all  the  isles.  You  have  but  to  see  her  to  fall 
a-yearuing  for  a  daughter-iu-law." 

"  That  may  be  as  it  may.  When  Biton  shall  have 
opened  to  me  his  heart,  and  told  me  of  his  choice, 
then  I  will  descend  without  delay  into  the  city,  and 
formally  arrive  at  your  house  to  see  the  maiden. 
Until  then,  allow  me  to  retain  my  belief  that  chance 
brought  my  son  near  your  door  as  the  dove  flew  over 
the  wall.  And  be  cautious  how  you  inflame  a  young 
maiden's  imagination  with  feeding  to  it  the  praises 
of  my  son,  as  I  have  unsuspectingly  spoken  them 
from  my  heart." 

"Have  no  concern,"  said  Auge,  rising,  "that  the 
gem  of  the  earth  should  not  dazzle,  but  rather  be 
dazzled  by  a  shining  pebble,  of  such  as  the  seashore 
is  full.  Well,  I  thought  rather  to  be  thanked  than 
draw  on  myself  dry  words.  My  girl  is  fair,  your  son 
is  brave,  and  I  was  ever  an  old  fool  wishing  to  see 
the  young  happy.  Philotis  did  not  bid  me  come. 
I  doubt  if  her  glance  declined  on  your  son  long 
enough  to  tell  him  from  another.  I  said  what  I  did, 
looking  for  a  different  issue  to  our  talk,  —  for  she 
is  fair,  and  he,  to  all  seeming,  brave  ;  and  I  hope 
you  may  find  a  daughter-in-law  fit  to  fasten  on  her 
sandals." 

With  that,  old  Auge  took  her  departure. 

Antiope  watched  her  down  the  hillside,  and  as 
she  was  lost  to  view,  fell  to  half  pitying  the  good 
soul's  delusions.  Then  her  mind  dropped  lovingly 
and  naturally  back  again  on  the  thought  of  her  sons. 


100  THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

Bringing  up  old  sweet  memories  of  their  childhood 
had  given  new  life  to  her  pride  in  them.  It  was 
as  if  the  love  that  lay  like  still,  deep  waters  in  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  had  been  stirred  to  bring  up 
the  pearls  sunken  in  them,  made  to  tremble  and 
shine  and  feel  themselves  be.  It  seemed  a  long  time 
since  she  had  parted  from  Biton  and  Attys  at  break 
of  day ;  she  yearned  to  see  them  turn  the  hill-road, 
coming  toward  her.  Her  thought  caressed  the  image 
she  called  up  of  them  as  she  had  often  seen  them, — 
emerging  from  behind  the  rock  that  shut  off  the  far 
ther  view  of  the  road,  equally  fair  and  well-grown, 
Attys  with  one  arm  cast  across  Biton's  shoulders,  both 
smiling  to  meet  her  welcoming  smile.  She  had  never 
felt  more  keenly  how  blessed  she  was  in  them ;  her 
heart  was  beset  with  tenderness,  and  to  throw  off  its 
oppression  she  went  quickly  into  the  house  to  busy 
herself  about  their  evening  meal. 

"  They  are  late,"  she  thought,  and  repeatedly  came 
outside  to  look  up  the  road.  "They  promised  to 
return  at  sundown.  They  cannot  be  far."  With  a 
restless  impulse  to  have  them  near  her  soon,  a  little 
sooner,  she  walked  forth,  up  along  the  road  they  were 
sure  to  pass,  thinking  of  them  incessantly. 

The  sky  was  fading,  and  all  the  valley  blurred  with 
a  violet  mist.  The  light  dew  fell.  Antiope  walked 
slowly  with  upturned  face ;  and  the  peace  of  the 
perfect  evening  stole  upon  her. 

Shepherds  and  flocks  passed  her,  returning  to  the 
white  farms  thinly  scattered  over  the  hillside.  These, 
forcing  her  to  the  side  of  the  road  and  sometimes 
jostling  her,  broke  up  the  skein  of  her  thought.  The 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  101 

sharpness  died  from  her  longing  to  look  upon  the  faces 
of  her  children,  her  disappointment  at  their  delay; 
and  with  this  release  —  Fate  being  busy  at  work  with 
the  threads  of  her  life  —  came  a  half-formed  desire  to 
prove  to  herself  her  independence  by  prolonging  her 
walk  so  long  as  it  gave  her  pleasure,  even  though  her 
sons  might  reach  home  in  her  absence. 

She  turned  from  the  road  into  a  field,  and  strayed 
through  a  vineyard,  then  on  through  a  little  grove, 
careless  whither  her  feet  took  her,  being  well  ac 
quainted  with  the  region. 

So  the  divine  night  approached;  the  half-moon 
brightened  in  mid-heaven,  —  it  could  only  just  make 
a  shadow,  —  while  a  glimmer  of  sunset  light  lingered 
above  the  hills. 

Now  Antiope  paused  to  see  where  she  stood,  before 
beginning  to  retrace  her  steps. 

The  light  was  dim,  but  her  good  eyes  served  her. 
It  was  a  pasture  she  knew,  avoided  by  shepherds 
since  a  brown  sylvan  god  was  said  to  have  been  seen 
there  sitting  and  fantastically  piping.  The  ground 
was  uneven,  broken  up  by  rocks  into  hills  and  hol 
lows  ;  once,  as  she  remembered,  dotted  with  sheep. 

As  she  stood  still  to  observe,  a  sound  met  her  ear, 
—  a  faint  sound  as  of  struggling. 

Her  first  thought  was  that  a  stray  lamb  must  be 
caught  in  a  thorn.  She  listened  and  moved  toward 
the  sound,  pausing  at  every  few  steps  to  listen 
again. 

It  led  her  to  climb  over  a  ledge  of  rock  fringed  in 
every  crease  with  short  bushes  and  grass,  tufted  at 
the  top  with  trees.  The  sound  of  struggling  came  to 


102  THE  SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

her  distinct  as  she  stood  among  the  trees.  Beyond 
them  the  ground  dropped  to  a  hollow,  —  a  nearly 
circular  hollow,  —  at  the  bottom  of  which  gleamed 
a  small  sheet  of  water,  bluish  in  the  first  faint  moon 
light.  Against  that  she  caught  the  outline  of  a  dark 
swaying  object. 

The  last  light  of  day  was  at  her  back;  no  ray  of 
it  reached  the  hollow,  only  a  doubtful  whiteness  rain 
ing  down  from  the  young  moon.  By  that  she  could 
scarcely  for  a  moment  tell  if  the  forms  were  of  man 
or  brute. 

She  held  her  breath  and  strained  her  eyes.  Then 
she  perceived  it  to  be  two  men  struggling.  At  first 
she  thought  two  shepherds  settling  their  claims  or 
differences ;  then  a  superstitious  terror  crept  through 
her,  and  she  feared  it  might  be  two  sylvan  gods 
ready  to  punish  a  mortal  with  blindness  or  madness 
should  they  discover  themselves  to  be  spied  upon. 
Panic  seized  her;  she  dared  not  fly.  She  crouched 
among  the  trees  with  a  loud-beating  heart,  and  did 
not  stir. 

It  seemed  a  bitter,  bitter  fight.  Antiope  could  dis 
tinguish  between  the  sounds  now :  the  stamp  of  the 
foot  taking  fresh  hold  upon  the  ground,  or  the  thud 
of  the  arm  closing  with  a  recovered  advantage,  the 
harsh  hiss  of  lips  gathering  in  wind,  the  crack  of 
joints  bending  under  the  straining  weight  of  the  ad 
versary  ;  then  the  groan  of  effort  as  the  knees  were 
straightened,  and  the  weight  was  lifted  and  held 
swaying  a  moment  and  violently  cast. 

But  never  did  either  of  the  combatants  more  than 
touch  knee  to  the  ground.  Now  and  then  the  two 


THE  SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  103 

parted  for  a  second  to  get  a  full  breath,  then  closed 
with  fresh  fury,  never  uttering  a  word.  The  moon 
touched  them  with  a  wild  effect,  just  suggesting  their 
discomposed  locks  and  garments. 

Long  minutes  passed ;  the  breath  of  both  came 
labored  and  loud ;  they  fought  spasmodically,  with 
greater  display  both  of  strength  and  weakness. 

Suddenly,  before  Antiope  knew  how  it  had  hap 
pened,  they  were  on  the  ground,  still  desperately 
struggling,  rolling  and  writhing;  then  one  lay  mo 
tionless  under  the  other. 

There  was  a  long,  long  silence,  cut  only  by  hard 
breathing.  Antiope  could  hear  her  heart. 

Presently  the  topmost  figure  rose  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  the  prostrate  enemy,  who  grasped  it  and  got 
to  his  feet  tottering.  Then  the  echoes  were  surprised 
with  a  double  peal  of  laughter,  strange  and  harsh, 
yet  sufficiently  human,  at  which  Antiope's  heart 
stood  still. 

No  sylvan  gods  were  these,  as  she  knew  by  that 
sound.  She  gathered  strength,  and  came  stumbling 
down  the  side  of  the  rock,  impelled  by  a  terror  more 
insane  than  she  had  yet  felt. 

She  had  almost  reached  the  wrestlers  before  they 
became  aware  of  her. 

"  Biton !  Attys  ! "  she  gasped ;  "  is  it  you  ? " 

The  two  men  shrank  back  a  step,  and  were  still, 
struck  dumb  with  amazement.  Then  through  the 
gloom  came  a  familiar  voice  attempting  to  subdue 
and  soften  itself :  "  Mother,  how  have  you  come  to 
this  place?" 

"In  good  time  I  came,  it  seems,"  said  Antiope, 


104  THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

trembling  with  a  passion  of  wrath  and  grief,  —  "  in 
time  to  know  your  hearts  better !  Oh,  me  deceived ! 
Would  I  had  not  been  born !  Would  I  had  borne  no 
sons !  Oh,  wicked,  unnatural,  abominable ! " 

"  Hush,  mother !  Do  not  chide.  Wait  but  a  mo 
ment  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  cannot  stand  nor  speak, 
for  pure  weariness.  Wait  but  a  little,  —  or  Biton,  if 
you  by  any  chance  have  breath  left,  make  our  deeds 
clear  to  our  mother."  And  Attys  dropped  to  the 
ground,  stretching  himself  his  full  size  out  on  the 
trampled  grass  to  rest. 

Biton  stooped  over  the  spring  and  drank,  and 
dashed  his  head  with  water.  When  he  rose,  bright 
drops  rolled  from  his  hair. 

Then  he  turned  to  his  mother,  and  spoke  briefly 
and  moderately,  as  was  Biton's  way :  "  Not  as  ene 
mies,  mother,  were  we  contending.  We  have  no 
cause  for  quarrel.  But  we  have  been  fighting  since 
daybreak,  and  I  am  at  last  the  victor.  We  were 
equally  reputed  above  all  others  in  the  region  for 
strength  and  endurance,  and  we  could  not  live  longer 
without  knowing  which  of  the  two  were  the  better 
man.  Now  we  are  satisfied.  And  that  is  all.  Attys 
bears  me  no  grudge,"  he  added,  "as  I  owe  him  no 
scorn.  Do  you,  Attys  ? " 

Attys  laughed,  —  a  laugh  broken  and  discordant 
from  desperate  weariness.  "  No ;  no  grudge,  no 
scorn,  —  loving  brothers  as  ever.  One  had  to  yield, 
or  we  should  have  fought  till  we  dropped  dead.  All 
happened  as  it  should ;  the  younger  was  overcome." 

Antiope  groaned,  and  hid  her  face  to  shut  out  the 
changed  world. 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  105 

"Don't  grieve,  mother,"  said  Biton.  "You  are  a 
woman ;  you  cannot  understand.  Then  trust  your 
sons  when  we  tell  you  it  was  good,  as  it  was  un 
avoidable.  No  evil  is  done;  nothing  is  changed. 
A  little  water  to  wash  off  this  dust  and  blood  and 
sweat,  a  long  sleep,  and  there  will  be  no  trace  left  of 
this." 

"  0  gods  ! "  moaned  Antiope,  foreboding  nameless 
disasters. 

"  Attys,  you  are  more  cunning  with  words.  Per 
suade  you  our  mother  as  we  go  homeward.  The 
chill  dew  will  stiffen  us  if  we  lie  here  longer." 

Unsteadily  the  three  regained  the  road,  the  men 
reeling  as  if  drunk,  in  turns  upholding  and  upheld 
by  their  mother ;  frequently  laughing  a  jarring,  ex 
cited  laugh  at  their  missteps. 

At  last  they  reached  the  house,  and  cleared  them 
selves  with  water  of  all  outward  signs  of  the  fight ; 
clothed  themselves  in  fresh  fragrant  linen,  and  with 
composed  locks  sat  down  to  the  fairly  spread  board 
beside  their  pale  and  solemn  mother. 

Their  faces  were  warmly  flushed,  their  eyes  bright 
as  the  eyes  of  immortals ;  the  excitement  of  the  day's 
strife  increased  their  beauty  tenfold. 

Antiope  gazed  in  silence  from  Biton  to  Attys,  and 
Attys  to  Biton,  while  they  talked  in  a  frank  and 
friendly  way,  no  else  than  as  if  they  had  returned 
after  good  sport  from  the  ordinary  chase. 

They  were  as  much  alike  almost  as  if  they  had 
been  twins ;  with  the  same  straight  brows  and  clus 
tering  hair.  But  if  thev  had  been  as  near  like  as 

o  •/ 

dew-drops,  one  familiar  with  them  could  have  told 


106  THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

them  apart  from  nothing  but  the  look  in  the  eye,  — 
that  in  Biton's  reserved,  calm,  secure,  suggesting 
repose  in  power,  not  referring  to  other  eyes  for 
praise  or  blame ;  that  in  Attys'  quick,  smiling, 
beaming  friendliness,  appealing  to  all  for  favor, 
sympathy,  approval. 

As  the  brothers  warmed  with  food  and  wine, 
their  words  flowed  freely,  more  than  usual  grateful 
to  hear,  — generous,  eloquent  words.  Autiope,  watch 
ing  and  listening,  felt  a  measure  of  comfort  creep 
back  into  her  heart. 

When  they  had  eaten,  they  declared  they  were 
dropping  with  sleep;  and  Antiope  herself  lighted 
them  to  their  chambers,  receiving  cheerful  good 
night  greetings. 

Then  she  went  to  rest  herself,  but  could  not 
sleep.  She  was  haunted  in  spite  of  her  reasonings 
by  a  sense  of  something  broken  that  could  never 
be  made  whole,  —  something  gone,  not  to  be  restored. 
She  saw  the  long  line  of  future  days  unfolding  be 
fore  her,  and  never  one  among  them  bright  as  the 
days  that  were  dead,  —  not  one  purely  golden,  but 
all  imperfect,  chilled  and  overshadowed  by  this 
day's  action.  Her  heart  burned  and  ached.  In 
her  arms  was  awakened  with  a  yearning  pang  the 
old  feeling  of  holding  children;  and  she  sighed, 
"  Oh  that  they  were  still  little,  and  I  were  walk 
ing  with  one  on  each  arm,  able  in  myself  to  make 
both  quite  happy  !  " 

Her  couch  was  hot  and  comfortless.  She  arose 
at  last  and  went  out  upon  the  roof,  as  she  had 
done  before  on  sleepless  nights,  to  breathe  the  pure 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  107 

dark  air  a  minute,  and  see  if  the  sight  of  the  stars 
might  not  cairn  her. 

As  she  looked  out  over  the  valley,  something 
stirred  near,  below.  On  the  pale  stone  bench 
where  she  had  sat  with  Auge  that  day  she  dimly 
discerned  a  figure  reclining.  Her  prophetic  heart 
warned  her  unerringly.  Casting  her  mantle  about 
her,  noiselessly  she  crept  down  the  stairs  into 
the  shadowy  odorous  garden,  moved  to  the  bench, 
and  touched  the  figure  on  the  shoulder,  saying} 
"  Attys ! " 

The  young  man  lifted  his  face  from  his  arm 
with  a  start. 

"  Attys,"  said  his  mother  again,  in  a  tender  tone 
that  of  itself  questioned  him,  bade  him  lighten 
his  heart  to  her,  promised  consolation. 

"Nothing,"  he  replied  in  a  thick  voice,  unlike 
his  own,  —  a  voice  that  shut  her  out,  forbade  her, 
as  plainly  as  did  his  slight  gesture  to  remove  her 
hand  from  him. 

And  she  knew  that  he  was  struggling  with  his 
first  man-sorrow,  and  that  he  refused  to  let  her 
share  it. 

On  the  next  day  and  the  days  that  followed  all 
was  to  all  seeming  as  before.  The  brothers  went 
forth  together  or  with  their  companions,  shepherds 
and  huntsmen,  on  their  various  adventures  and 
pleasures.  No  one  noted  a  change  in  their  man 
ner  to  each  other.  Only  Antiope,  grown  in  her 
anxious  watching  wonderfully  keen  of  sight,  and 
in  her  deep  sympathy  morbidly  alive  to  impres- 


108  THE  SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

sions,  was  ever  saying  to  herself:  "Attys  chafes. 
How  will  he  make  shift  to  be  reconciled  ?  He  is 
casting  about  in  his  mind  how  to  redeem  himself. 
What  will  Attys  do?" 

But  when  after  a  time  she  saw  the  full  light 
returned  to  Attys'  eye,  and  caught  the  true  ring 
in  his  mirth,  her  fears  were  hushed;  she  almost 
forgot  them. 

And  as  days  went  by,  she  had  to  wonder  what 
agreeable  circumstance  Attys  might  be  musing  on 
when  his  face  lighted  in  that  unusual  way,  —  Attys 
with  this  new  whim"  of  exquisite  precision  about 
his  body's  adornment.  Biton's  face  did  not  breathe 
a  quiet  satisfaction  like  that;  Biton's,  on  the  con 
trary,  was  almost  stern  when  he  was  not  speaking. 
Though  Antiope  said  to  herself  that  she  loved  her 
sons  equally,  she  owned  she  was  always  more  glad 
of  a  joy  for  Attys  than  grieved  at  a  cross  for  Biton. 
Biton  disposed  easily  of  annoyance,  hardly  showed 
signs  of  feeling  it ;  and  Attys  could  be  so  exuber 
antly  happy,  so  tender  when  he  was  pleased. 

At  last  she  was  enlightened.  One  evening  Attys 
knelt  by  her  side,  and  turning  his  confident  face  up 
to  her,  confessed,  "  Mother,  I  love." 

Biton,  who  was  present,  rose  to  leave.  But  Attys 
said  quickly :  "  Stay,  brother.  From  you  I  have  no 
secrets.  I  love,  mother,  and  I  am  loved.  She  is 
young  and  good,  and  most,  most  beautiful.  You  will 
see  her,  you  will  make  her  welcome." 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  faltered  Antiope,  confused  she 
knew  not  whether  with  joy  or  fear. 

"  It  is  Philotis,  Lycaon's  daughter." 


THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON.  109 

Antiope  felt  herself  turn  cold  with  alarm  as  a  swift 
suspicion  crossed  her  mind.  She  looked  at  Biton ; 
he  sat  in  his  place  with  the  calm  face  of  every  day. 
She  looked  again  at  Attys.  His  face  glowed  and 
beamed  with  a  triumphant  happiness.  It  warmed 
her  to  look  on  it ;  and  the  last  lingering  resentment 
for  that  night  when  he  had  suffered  alone  in  the  gar 
den  thawed  before  it.  She  could  not  but  understand 
how  a  young  girl,  though  not  his  mother,  must  pre 
fer  this  radiant  Attys  to  yonder  cold,  undemonstrative 
Biton,  though  Auge  had  said  —  But  she  had  no  reason 
whatever  for  saying  it,  as  had  been  clear  at  the  time. 

After  abundance  of  confessions  and  long  discus 
sion,  Autiope  rose  at  last,  intent  on  preparing  to 
set  forth  early  and  seek  Lycaon.  As  she  passed 
through  the  door,  again  that  swift  suspicion  shot 
through  her  heart.  It  had  seemed  to  her  she  heard 
Attys  call  out  to  Biton  in  his  clear,  gay  accents 
something  that  sounded  like,  "  Not  in  every  contest 
is  the  victory  thine,  brother." 

"  Be  silent ! "  commanded  Biton,  without  raising 
his  voice. 

"  You  mean  by  your  tone,"  spoke  Attys,  with  lit 
tle  of  the  earlier  sweetness  left  in  his  voice,  "  that 
you  think  yourself  able  to  enforce  your  will." 

But  Antiope  did  not  hear  this,  —  only,  as  she 
withdrew,  something  indistinct,  that  she  decided 
afterward  could  scarcely  have  been,  "Not  in  every 
contest  is  the  victory  thine,  brother." 

So  the  days  went  by,  in  their  appointed  measure 
golden  and  gray.  The  moon  grew  more  and  less, 


110  THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

the  seasons  changed,  and  in  their  course  brought 
the  afternoon  when  happened  what  shall  here  be  set 
forth. 

On  the  same  semicircular  seat,  out  in  the  ter 
raced  garden,  where  Auge  and  Antiope  had  tarried 
talking  of  the  past,  and  where  Attys  had  wept,  sat 
Phil otis  holding  her  little  son. 

The  citadel  gleamed  white  on  its  rock.  The  little 
city  at  its  base  showed  white  and  red  among  the 
trees;  the  river  wound  like  a  silver  ribbon. 

Philotis  had  gathered  her  feet  up  on  the  smooth 
marble,  and  was  playing  with  the  baby,  who  sat 
astride  her  making  clutches  at  her  hair,  which  she 
in  turns  pulled  over  her  eyes,  concealing  them,  and 
pushed  back,  laughing  out  at  him  suddenly. 

Against  the  stone  that  took  on  a  dazzling  white 
ness  from  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky,  Philotis  looked 
wonderfully  rosy,  her  hair  gleamed  warm.  She 
was  in  the  perfection  of  youth ;  her  face  had  still 
moments  of  touching  childishness,  and  sometimes 
already  that  mature,  experienced  look  of  a  woman 
satisfied  with  love  and  life. 

The  baby's  playing  was  now  and  then  stopped 
short,  when  the  mother  caught  its  little  head  be 
tween  her  hands  to  kiss  indiscriminately  with  laugh 
ing,  inarticulate,  loving  murmurs. 

"  Small  Itylus,  small  Itylus,  it  is  unseemly  to  pull 
thy  mother's  hair.  When  thy  father  comes,  he  shall 
know  of  it.  I  will  say  to  him  a  bold,  bold  person 
in  his  absence  pulled  the  hair  he  loves.  He  will 
take  down  his  ponderous,  bronze-headed  spear,  and 
say,  shaking  it  while  his  big  eyes  roll,  'Where  is 


THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON.  Ill 

that  person  ? '  And  thou  canst  not  flee  yet  on  these 
dumpy  legs  that  shall  stride  over  such  brave  miles 
one  day ;  but  perhaps  mother  will  stand  before  thee. 
I  will  spread  out  my  gown  to  hide  thee,  and  say,  '  I 
don't  know  what  has  become  of  that  ruffian ;  he  was 
here  but  a  moment  ago.'  Then  thy  father  —  "  Her 
face  lost  a  shade  of  its  brightness  as  she  stopped  on 
that  word  to  think  a  moment,  looking  away  from  the 
baby  off  over  the  peaceful  valley.  "  Where  is  thy 
father  now,  small  Itylus  ?  Ask  that  bird,  and  tell 
me  what  he  says.  Thou  art  almost  as  little  as  a 
big,  big  bird,  and  thy  conversation  resembles  that  of 
the  wood-pigeons ;  thou  shouldst  understand  them. 
Ask  the  birds,  —  they  fly  so  far,  they  see  so  much,  — 
ask  where  thy  father  is,  and  tell  me.  Goo-goo  — 
Ah,  I  see,  I  understand  !  Goo-goo,  —  that  means  that 
he  is  well  and  on  his  way  home  to  us.  Goo-goo,  — 
of  course,  my  wise,  small  Itylus ! "  and  the  frolics 
of  the  happy  pair  began  again. 

Suddenly,  with  a  glad  cry,  Philotis  jumped  to  her 
feet,  and  clutching  the  baby  made  a  few  steps  for 
ward,  her  face  wreathed  with  smiles,  though  the 
man,  to  meet  whom  she  was  running,  was  still  too 
far  to  seize  their  welcome. 

Then  as  suddenly  she  stopped,  turned,  and  slowly 
went  back  to  the  bench,  seated  herself  in  a  corner  of 
it,  composed  the  folds  of  her  crocus-yellow  gown 
over  her  little  feet,  set  the  serious  grown  baby 
straight  on  her  knee,  and  watched  the  approach  of 
the  man  with  a  calm,  almost  sulky  face. 

He  advanced  slowly,  looking  about  for  signs  of 
life.  Philotis  was  the  only  one  in  sight,  except 


112  THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

servants  about  their  various  offices  in  the  farm- 
buildings  beyond  the  fair  dwelling-house. 

He  came  to  her  side.  She  had  not  readjusted  her 
hair;  the  blooming  face  she  lifted  at  his  greeting 
was  like  a  glorified  sunflower,  framed  in  delicate 
flame-like,  gold-red  locks. 

"  Is  my  mother  within  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Is  my  brother  at  home  ? " 

She  shook  it  again  without  speaking. 

The  man  laughed,  and  took  a  seat  at  the  other  end 
of  the  bench,  flinging  his  arm  across  the  sun-warmed 
back.  "  Perhaps  Itylus  will  tell  me  what  has  be 
come  of  them,  and  where  I  must  go  to  find  them. 
Say  thou,  my  promising  nephew  —  " 

But  Philotis  did  not  wish  to  be  playful.  "  Your 
mother  and  Auge,"  she  answered  with  curt  direct 
ness,  "have  gone  to  a  neighbor.  And  he,  —  I  do 
not  know  myself  where  he  is.  I  took  you  for  him  a 
moment  ago,"  she  added  resentfully. 

"  That  must  have  been  bitter ;  and  I  am  rewarded 
for  looking  like  him  by  that  exceedingly  weary,  dis 
appointed  look  which  politeness  in  the  family  forbid 
you  should  be  at  trouble  to  disguise.  Another  time 
I  will  send  before  me  a  messenger  to  shout,  '  It  is 
only  Biton  ! '  " 

"  Now  you  are  making  me  still  sorrier  that  it  was 
you,"  said  Philotis.  "If  you  had  come  with  pleasant 
words  to  tell  me  the  news  in  the  city,  and  how  your 
fields  and  flocks  prosper,  I  should  only  have  quite 
naturally  regretted  that  it  was  not  Attys,  whom  I 
have  not  seen  it  seems  for  a  hundred  years.  But  if 


THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON.  113 

you  speak  in  that  disagreeable,  thorny  way  you  have, 
I  shall  be  sorry  it  was  not  some  one  else,  —  oh,  with 
out  any  choice  whatever,  you  know,  —  any  one  but 
you ;  even  Dauriius,  the  goat-herd,  with  the  wen  on 
his  nose." 

Biton  listened  calmly,  without  apology  or  attempt 
at  justification,  or  reminder  that  she  first  had  offended. 
"What  Philotis  did  or  said  did  not  seem  to  him  to 
matter  very  much.  Being  reasonable  or  just  seemed 
out  of  her  province.  She  filled  her  part  sufficiently 
by  being  simply  beautiful  and  sweet.  There  was  felt 
a  kinship  between  her  and  such  things  in  inanimate 
nature  as  give  one  a  reposeful,  unreflecting  joy  from 
their  irresponsible  scent  and  warmth,  —  June  roses 
spreading  themselves  to  the  brooding  noonday  light, 
balsam-dropping  trees  exuding  fragrance  in  the  sun, 
warm  wind  breathing  from  over  hay-fields.  Having 
come  within  the  circle  of  the  light  and  heat  that 
radiated  from  her  soft,  full-colored,  perfect  person, 
it  would  have  seemed  churlish  to  require  of  her 
deep  and  various  wisdom  and  sympathetic  under 
standing  and  fine  impersonal  judgments.  Every  one 
since  she  had  been  born  had  given  her  her  wish ; 
and  now  she  took  it  with  no  thought  but  that  all 
must  be  pleased  with  what  pleased  her.  Since  she 
had  been  born  all  had  deferred  to  her,  and  at  this 
hour  she  was  not  given  to  doubts  of  herself.  Yet 
these  things  seemed  almost  no  fault  at  all  by  light  of 
those  sweet,  changeful,  limpid  eyes. 

"  Is  my  speech  thorny  ? "  Biton  said  at  last,  when 
Philotis  had  finished,  and  mother  and  child  sat  look 
ing  at  him  from  their  corner  with  great,  sweet,  hostile 

8 


114  THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

eyes.  "  I  must  believe  it  is.  I  forget  how  to  speak 
to  women.  But  I  will  try  to  mend.  So  give  me 
Itylus  a  moment,  and  I  will  go  and  find  my  mother." 

She  looked  ready  to  refuse ;  then  gave  up  the  child 
grudgingly,  and  watched  it  jealously  in  Biton's  hands. 
The  child  kicked,  and  Biton  restored  it  to  its  mother 
before  she  had  snatched  it. 

"  What,  Itylus  ! "  he  said.  "  You  share  your  little 
mother's  prejudices  to-day.  You  are  in  an  ill-humor 
with  me.  Wherefore  ?  If  I  am  a  disagreeable  uncle, 
like  the  wolf,  of  course,  and  the  bear  and  the  hornet, 
—  I  do  not  come  often,  nor  do  I  stay  long.  And 
while  I  am  here  I  try  to  be  better  than  usual,  I  vow 
I  do,  though  with  the  effect  you  see.  I  make  great 
efforts  to  emulate  the  harmless  woolly  lamb  and  the 
unaggressive  dove  and  the  domestic  cat.  I  frequently 
bring  you  gifts  too,  Itylus,  though  as  soon  as  you 
have  swallowed  or  broken  them  you  try  to  put  your 
fist  in  my  eye.  Why  do  you  treat  me  as  an  enemy, 
sturdy  little  Itylus  ? " 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Philotis,  with  eyes  kindling 
at  the  opportunity  to  say  what  she  had  often  chafed  to 
repress.  "  Because  he  knows  you  are  his  enemy  ! " 

"  I  ? "  asked  Biton,  after  a  pause  during  which  he 
had  turned  a  shade  paler. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  are  his  enemy.  You  are  my  enemy  ; 
it  is  all  the  same.  Where  is  Attys  to-day  ?  Why  do 
you  not  leave  Attys  alone  ?  We  are  happy  enough 
as  we  are." 

Biton  stared  at  her. 

"  Yes,  yes,  that  is  what  I  say,"  she  proceeded,  a 
little  fiercely  now  she  thought  of  her  wrongs.  "  What 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  115 

does  Attys  want  more  than  me,  more  than  Itylus, 
and  all  his  pastures  and  sheep  and  vineyards  and 
bee-hives  and  servants,  and  his  mother,  and  my  old 
nurse  to  look  after  every  want  of  his,  —  for  Auge 
worships  the  shadow  he  casts  on  the  ground.  Why 
should  you  spoil  all  ?  " 

"  Spoil  ?  How  do  I  interfere,  Philotis  ?  This  was 
my  father's  house,  my  home  once.  I  have  gone  to 
live  elsewhere ;  I  have  taken  nothing  from  you,  not 
even  my  mother,  though  I  confess  I  tried  at  one  time 
to  induce  her  to  go  with  me.  It  seemed  to  me  I 
needed  her  most." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  No  one  wanted 
you  to  go.  It  was  you  who  became  insufferable  as 
soon  as  I  had  come  to  the  house.  They  all  said  you 
were  not  so  before,  silent  and  hard  as  a  stone,  speak 
ing  only  to  sneer.  Then  you  wished  to  go  and  to 
take  your  mother  far  from  us  all,  high  up  in  the  hills 
to  a  solitary  farmhouse.  But  she  saw  that  in  your 
quarrels  with  Attys  you  only  were  to  blame.  Oh,  it 
was  not  as  you  feigned  to  believe,  —  that  she  loved 
Attys  best.  But  she  was  too  just  to  leave  Attys  — 
a  good  son  !  —  for  you,  the  one  who  offended.  You 
know  full  well  that  you  might  have  stayed  with  us, 
and  that  it  is  your  own  fault  now  if  you  are  lonely, 
and  are  falling  into  the  manners  of  a  savage." 

"  And  how  am  I  your  enemy,  Philotis  ? " 

"I  have  said  already:  AVhy  can  you  not  leave 
Attys  alone  ?  He  is  satisfied,  he  is  happy.  Then 
you  come  back  from  your  expeditions,  and  you  tell 
him  of  them,  and  you  show  him  wounds,  and  talk  of 
dangers,  and  enlarge  upon  your  prowesses,  and  you 


116  THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

say  that  his  companions  missed  him ;  you  prate  of 
glory  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  ! "  cried  Biton,  flushing  crimson.  "  I 
tell  him  that  his  former  brothers-at-arins  ask  if  Phi 
lemon  had  not  two  sons,  and  if  one  of  them  is  not 
perhaps  bedridden,  or  grown  too  fat  for  action.  I 
tell  him  that  half  of  the  fair  name  we  won  together 
in  many  adventures  and  encounters  is  rusting  like  a 
knife  unused  in  the  sheath.  Soon  it  will  not  be  the 
sous  of  Philemon  spoken  of  whenever  fair  and 
knightly  deeds  are  cited,  but  Biton,  son  of  Philemon. 
For  a  sluggard  is  not  esteemed,  even  though  his  youth 
gained  a  measure  of  glory ;  he  is  forgotten,  who  would 
have  been  long  remembered  if  he  had  died  in  the 
flush  of  his  fame.  Yearly  the  youth  of  this  city  and 
these  hills  goes  forth  to  meet  the  enemies,  to  prove 
its  strength  and  courage.  Twice  Attys  has  been 
absent.  Things  that  poets  shall  make  immortal  have 
been  done,  and  he  knows  nothing  of  them  but  their 
report." 

"  I  kept  him,"  said  Philotis,  promptly  and  proudly, 
"  I  would  not  let  him  go.  I  beguiled  his  attention 
from.  wars.  I  made  him  forget.  I  —  I  —  I  —  " 

"  I  know,"  spoke  Biton,  sadly.  "  You  are  a  woman  ; 
you  do  not  understand  some  things.  And  there  is  a 
pulse  in  me  that  feels  for  you,  that  apprehends  your 
way  of  looking.  But  Itylus  here,  this  soft  white 
bundle  helpless  now  in  your  woman's  hands,  that  is 
yet  the  germ  of  a  man  and  Philemon's  grandson,  — 
he,  when  he  is  grown  to  his  full  heritage  of  strength 
and  intelligence  and  finds  it  a  dishonor  to  be  called 
the  son  of  Attys,  —  he  will  not  have  patience  to  seek 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  117 

your  point  of  view.  Attys  sleeps,  I  would  wish  to 
wake  him." 

"  No,  he  does  not  sleep.  I  would  the  gods  he  did ! 
After  you  have  been  here  with  your  goading  words, 
he  is  restless,  ill  at  ease ;  he  does  not  fully  listen  to 
me.  If  I  am  a  woman,  so  is  your  mother,  whom  you 
respect  nevertheless,  who  says  too  that  the  duties  of 
husband  and  father  are  not  the  same  as  a  bachelor's ; 
that  he  should  risk  his  life  no  doubt  if  his  country 
were  in  danger,  but  not  for  a  freak,  not  in  pursuit  of 
every  wandering  fire  of  glory.  No,  Attys  does  not 
sleep ;  and  it  is  my  spite  toward  you  that  you  will 
not  leave  him  in  peace." 

"  I  give  praise  that  there  is  so  much  of  his  father 
left  in  him  !  I  thought  myself  that  he  lay  asleep 
sunk  in  a  thick  idle  fleece,  and  with  ears  stopped  up 
fast  to  the  sound  of  the  trumpet." 

"  I  tell  you,  I  wish  he  were  at  home  now,  and  asleep, 
or  that  I  knew  where  he  is." 

There  was  a  ring  of  sincere  anxiety  in  her  voice. 
"  He  may  have  gone  just  a-hunting  he  took  his 
spear  and  bow.  But  he  spoke  mysteriously  when  he 
left,  and  told  me  not  to  be  alarmed  if  he  stayed  away 
somewhat  longer  than  usual.  He  charged  me  spe 
cially  when  he  kissed  me  at  parting  not  to  make 
myself  unhappy ;  he  would  remain  rather  than  that 
I  should  suffer,  yet  wished  for  my  good  word  on  his 
going.  He  hinted  at  its  making  me  glad  hereafter, 
and  being  for  Itylus'  best,  and  would  not  answer  all 
my  questions  openly.  His  eyes  shone  in  a  way  I  do 
not  like,  —  as  I  have  seen  them  when  you  and  he 
have  been  talking  together  of  a  time  when  I  had  no 


118  THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

part  in  his  life.  Biton,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  you  to  thank 
that  I  have  slept  alone  these  three  nights  and  moped 
three  days.  I  have  tried  to  make  myself  happy  with 
the  baby,"  she  sighed ;  "  but  my  heart  when  I  let 
myself  stop  to  think  is  very  heavy.  Oh,  Biton,  try 
to  be  friendly ! "  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  after  a 
space  of  gazing  pensively  over  the  valley,  turning  to 
him  with  wet  eyes.  "  Tell  me  where  you  think  he  is, 
and  why  he  stays  so  long." 

Not  a  trace  of  her  resentment  remained  in  her  face. 
It  was  soft  and  forlorn,  tender  with  its  great  helpless, 
undisciplined  love.  Her  tears  grew  and  fell  over 
her  lashes,  gleamed  a  moment  on  her  cheek,  and 
were  frankly  brushed  away  with  the  back  of  her 
hand. 

Biton  did  not  know  what  to  say.  His  heart  had 
warmed,  by  an  old  habit  not  quite  outgrown  of  pride 
in  his  brother,  at  thought  that  her  worst  fears  were 
perhaps  realized,  that  Attys  had  awakened  at  last 
from  the  insensibility  to  glory  that  got  him  his  con 
tempt  and  made  him  ashamed  to  own  him.  But  her 
sweet  distress  hurt  him  to  see.  And  on  second 
thought  his  first  conjecture  seemed  to  him  rash. 
Attys  was  past  hoping  better  things  of.  He  encour 
aged  her  to  look  for  the  best,  —  what  she  held  to  be 
the  best;  he  assured  her  of  his  firm  belief  that  Attys 
would  prove  to  have  gone  on  some  simple  enough 
errand  importing  nothing  more  than  worldly  gain,  — 
to  acquire  another  farm,  perhaps,  or  herds ;  he  would 
come  back  to  her  shortly  on  his  two  feet  in  as  bloom 
ing  condition  as  he  had  left  her. 

He  broke  off  from   his  speech  with   a  burst  of 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  119 

laughter,  and  pointed  where  the  hill-road  emerged 
from  behind  the  great  rock.  The  figure  of  a  man 
had  appeared  there. 

"Was  I  not -a  diviner?"  laughed  Biton,  harshly. 
"  See  where  he  comes ! " 

He  followed  with  his  eyes  the  bounding  figure 
of  Philotis,  who  though  burdened  with  Itylus  was 
hurrying  with  blowing  hair  and  flying  robe. 

Attys  for  a  moment  did  not  seem  to  see  her.  He 
dragged  his  foot  as  if  weary.  He  walked  with  his 
eyes  on  the  ground.  At  the  sound  of  the  glad  voice 
he  looked  up  quickly,  and  Biton  discreetly  turned 
his  face  toward  the  valley,  and  in  his  cold  eyes  were 
reflected  the  beauties  of  the  sunset  sky. 

He  turned  again  at  their  approaching  footsteps.  It 
was  Attys  now  held  Itylus,  steadying  him  on  his 
shoulder  with  one  hand.  Philotis  had  possession  of 
his  other  arm ;  she  clasped  her  small  hands  above  his 
shoulder,  and  so  half  hung,  talking  to  him  rapidly, 
laughing,  rubbing  her  flushed,  dimpling  cheek  against 
him. 

The  brothers  faced  each  other.  Attys'  garments 
were  travel-stained ;  his  buskins  were  covered  with 
dust. 

Biton's  eyes  searched  Attys'  with  a  sort  of  hope, 
and  lost  for  a  moment  the  half-contemptuous  look 
they  had  of  late  worn  when  turned  upon  his  brother. 
Attys'  eyes  gazed  back  at  him  for  a  moment  as  they 
had  used  when  they  two  were  youths  together,  and 
the  younger  relied  on  the  elder  for  encouragement, 
perhaps,  or  approval,  or  understanding,  or  assistance. 

Then,  as  if  recollecting  himself,  Attys  assumed  the 


120  THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

look  of  cold  civility  he  kept  for  his  brother;  and 
Biton  retreated  within  his  ordinary  stolid  indiffer 
ence.  But  once  more  Biton  was  smitten  with  a  sense 
of  the  pitiableness  of  his  folly,  the  smallness  of  man's 
nature.  He  wished  his  pride  would  allow  him  to 
put  a  question  that  burned  on  his  tongue ;  but  that 
stern  master  forbade.  And  they  two  had  grown  to 
gether,  shared  pleasures  and  pains  and  dangers,  been 
without  a  secret  one  from  the  other ! 

"  Biton  said  you  would  be  back,"  babbled  Philotis ; 
"  he  assured  me  you  had  gone  to  buy  sheep  or  some 
thing.  I  need  not  be  alarmed,  he  said ;  something 
without  the  least,  least  danger." 

"  Biton  is  always  wise ;  but  when  he  assumes  to 
read  my  heart,  and  finds  motives  for  me,  then  his 
wisdom  truly  shines,  and  his  generosity  reaches  its 
highest  point." 

"  Why  were  you  so  long,  my  Attys  ?  Where  did 
you  go  ?  What  did  you  do  ? " 

Attys  made  a  motion  touched  with  weariness,  and 
smiled  with  effort,  yet  making  an  attempt,  too,  to 
conceal  both  weariness  and  effort,  which  did  not 
escape  Bitoii,  not  engrossed  like  Philotis  by  pure  joy 
at  his  return.  "  Later,  my  curious  little  wife.  I 
will  tell  you  all  later,  when  wre  have  eaten." 

"  Are  you  so  tired  ? "  Philotis  asked,  sobering. 
"  Sit  down  at  once  and  I  will  take  him.  Come,  small 
Itylus.  Yes,  dearest  love,  you  look  weary.  I  was 
so  glad  I  did  not  notice ;  but  your  eyes  are  dark 
around  as  if  you  had  not  slept.  You  are  not  weary  ? 
Then  why  do  you  look  like  that  ?  Attys,  you  are 
not  ill?" 


THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON.  121 

She  put  her  hand  to  his  forehead,  full  of  wifely 
solicitude. 

He  laughed  impatiently,  saying  he  was  well  as 
ever;  and  when  she,  unconvinced,  passed  her  hand 
over  his  brow  through  his  thick  curls,  in  an  undis 
guised  caress  that  yet  had  a  medical  purpose,  he 
caught  the  hand  and  drew  it  down,  still  laughing 
faintly,  and  kept  it  prisoner  in  his  own,  while 
he  asked  concerning  the  events  of  the  last  few 
days. 

The  day  was  going;  the  sky  above  was  delicate 
green,  and  over  the  farther  little  hills  warm  golden. 
The  citadel,  the  pillars  of  the  temples  along  the  iri 
descent  river,  seemed  to  have  absorbed  the  last  sun 
shine,  and  still  for  a  moment  glowed  rosily,  though 
the  sun  was  gone. 

Attys,  while  Philotis  narrated  to  him  in  full  every 
trifle  that  had  come  to  her  ken  since  his  departure, 
looked  out  over  the  earth,  and  cast  his  head  back  to 
look  at  the  sky,  as  if  something  in  both  struck  him 
more  nearly  than  usual.  He  sat  turned  to  his  wife,  but 
looked  away  from  her  over  his  shoulder ;  while  she, 
leaning  forward  aud  stroking  with  one  hand  his  hand 
that  held  her  other,  —  Itylus  wedged  in  between 
them  and  fallen  asleep, — was  satisfied  to  chatter  on 
uninterruptedly.  Biton  stood  at  the  other  end  of 
the  bench,  behind  Attys,  with  one  foot  upon  the 
seat  and  his  arm  resting  on  his  lifted  knee,  con 
templating  now  the  group,  now  mechanically  looking 
off  and  up  to  see  what  it  was  Attys  saw.  To  him 
there  was  only  the  empty  evening  sky,  the  ordinary 
landscape. 


122  THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

Antiope  and  Auge  returned  to  find  them  so.  Attys 
leaped  up  with  more  than  his  usual  eagerness  to  meet 
his  mother ;  Biton  approached  her  gravely,  and  she 
blessed  both,  and  sat  down  with  them  and  asked  of 
their  concerns.  But  most  in  spite  of  her  wish  she 
had  to  converse  with  Attys,  for  they  lived  together ; 
she  could  not  speak  with  the  same  knowledge,  in 
quire  with  the  same  pertinence,  of  Biton's  affairs,  for 
he  lived  at  a  distance,  and  came  none  too  often,  and 
his  answers  at  best  were  curt. 

"Later,  later,  I  pray,  mother!"  replied  Attys  to 
Antiope,  as  to  Philotis,  when  she  inquired  of  his  ab 
sence.  Then  irrelevantly  he  broke  fortli :  "A  fair 
evening,  mother!  This  is  a  goodly  country,  is  it 
not  ?  —  fertile  and  beautiful.  A  good  soil  to  have 
been  born  on.  By  the  gods,  I  love  it ! " 

"  Yes,  beautiful,"  said  Antiope,  looking  out  over  it 
too.  "I  think  there  is  not  on  earth  a  fairer  spot. 
Once  in  thy  father's  day  we  went  abroad  in  a  ship, 
and  visited  kinsfolk  of  his  on  other  isles,  and  a  great 
city  on  the  mainland.  But  though  every  one  praised 
its  splendor  and  wealth,  it  never  seemed  to  me  as 
fair  to  the  eye,  as  good  to  be  near,  as  that  small  city 
in  the  valley  that  yet  no  traveller  comes  afar  to  be 
hold.  I  was  sick  with  longing  to  return,  and  vowed 
not  to  leave  it  again." 

"Ah,  we  know  —  we  know  that  you  are,  above 
other  women,  faithful  to  your  first  affections ! "  said 
Biton. 

Antiope  turned  to  him  a  face  full  of  displeasure. 
She  knew  that  wounding  tone  he  had  assumed  with 
her  of  late,  and  that  in  her  dignity  she  had  chosen  to 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  123 

ignore.  It  was  his  grievance  that  she  had  preferred 
Attys  to  him  in  her  choice  of  a  home.  But  she  had 
been  merely  just,  not  partial.  Now  he  was  pleased 
to  affect  believing  that  she  loved  him  —  the  first 
born  !  —  less  than  his  brother,  and  he  allowed  himself 
in  indirect  speeches  to  reproach  l\er.  A  resentful 
word  was  on  her  tongue ;  but  a  sudden,  intelligent, 
impersonal  pity  checked  it.  If  he  were  indeed  so 
mad  as  to  believe  that  his  place  was  usurped  in  her 
large  love,  she  could  well  understand  the  fund  of 
bitterness  from  which  sprung  those  unfilial  words. 
The  flash  died  in  her  eyes.  She  said,  with  more 
than  usual  gentleness :  "  You  say  well.  I  bear  the 
changeless  heart,  Biton.  Once  loved  with  me  is 
loved  ever,  though  the  object  prove  ungrateful  and 
unworthy  of  my  lasting  kindness." 

And  seeing  his  unmoved  face,  there  came  over  her 
once  more  a  sense  of  dull  despair  at  the  barrier  that 
was  rising  ever  higher  between  them,  and  that  she 
seemed  unable  to  cross.  She,  the  justly  incensed 
one,  to  whom  his  attitude  was  an  insult,  could  not 
be  the  one  to  take  the  first  step.  And  he,  he  did  not 
seem  to  care  that  they  were  estranged,  more  than 
to  let  drop  occasionally  words  that  bit  and  seared. 
Where  would  it  end  ?  Surely,  surely,  she  loved  him 
now  as  at  every  moment  since  the  first  of  his  exist 
ence  ;  but  out  of  her  love  all  that  made  it  a  sweet 
ness  to  her  heart  was  departing, — it  was  remaining 
to  be  only  a  dull,  never-sleeping  pain. 

As  she  was  reflecting  on  one  son's  hardness,  the 
other  softly  put  his  hand  in  hers,  as  if  appreciating 
her  pain.  All  her  heart  went  out  to  him.  Here  was 


124  THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

one  at  least  would  never  so  poorly  reward  her,  —  one 
meeting  her  love  with  an  equal,  candid,  undoubting 
love,  never  scanting  the  demonstration  of  it. 

She  pressed  Attys'  hand ;  and  he,  moved  by  a  sud 
den  impulse,  as  if  having  divined  the  hunger  for  ten 
derness  born  in  Jier  soul  of  Biton's  repulse,  dropped 
his  head  against  her  shoulder,  as  if  he  had  been  a  boy 
again,  and  had  come  to  her  with  some  childish  trouble. 
Only  for  a  second;  for  Auge  approached  to  take  Itylus 
to  put  him  to  bed. 

"  Oh,  leave  him  ! "  Attys  begged.  "  He  does  no 
harm,  and  can  take  none.  He  leans  against  me ; 
he  is  warm,  poor  little  mouse !  I  will  cast  the  end 
of  my  cloak  over  him  — " 

Philotis  interposed,  but  he  insisted. 

"  It  will  give  him  bad  habits,"  said  the  very  youth 
ful  mother,  seriously. 

"  Oh,  habits  !  I  shall  not  ask  it  more  than  this 
once ! "  said  Attys ;  and  as  he  seemed  so  unreason 
ably  bent  on  it,  the  child  was  left  him,  and  Auge 
retired,  grumbling,  with  orders  to  hurry  the  supper. 

"  Have  everything  the  best  to-night ! "  Attys  called 
out  after  her.  "  Honey  and  wine  and  fruits,  and  the 
flesh  of  a  young  kid.  We  will  feast  and  be  joyful. 
You  will  remain,  Biton, — I  pray  you  will;  I  humbly 
beseech  !  What !  you  are  not  curious  of  my  journey  ? 
Yet  it  may  not  have  been  what  you  thought;  there 
may  be  a  circumstance  or  so  of  interest  to  you  too. 
Come,  stay.  I  want  you  all,  —  all  about  me  ;  even 
this  small,  sleepy  copy  of  myself.  And  if  this  whim 
of  mine  stunts  his  growth,  —  as  by  your  great  reluc 
tance  I  judge  you  fear  it  may,  Philotis,  —  you  will 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  125 

explain  to  him,  when  he  "bewails  himself  on  his  in 
ferior  stature,  that  his  poor,  fond  father  one  fateful 
night  refused  to  be  parted  from  him ;  that  he  loved 
the  feel  of  his  baby  weight  against  the  fatherly 
knee—" 

Now  through  the  dewy  air  came  Auge's  voice 
calling  them  in. 

They  rose  and  turned  toward  the  house.  Attys 
stopped  half-way,  and  lingering  cast  his  eyes  over 
the  fair  dwelling,  through  whose  open  door  streamed 
light,  and  over  the  farm-buildings  beyond,  —  the 
meadows  and  vineyards  and  olive-groves  all  losing 
the  strength  of  their  color  in  the  oncoming  night, 
but  still  dreamily  green  and  gray,  and  the  walls  a 
cool,  ghostly  white  under  the  glass-clear  darkening 
sky,  stabbed  by  the  first  star's  point  of  crystal. 

"  That  house,"  he  said,  —  "  if  that  house  which  our 
father  built  so  strong  and  well  had  been  dear  to  you, 
Biton,  as  to  me,  I  swear  you  could  not  have  lightly 
left  it.  Look  at  it !  If  a  footsore,  homeless  trav 
eller  were  passing,  bent  he  knew  not  whither,  con 
ceive,  now,  how  warm  and  safe  and  peaceful  it  must 
seem  to  him  !  And  it  is  fair,  too,  to  the  eye,  —  very 
fair  of  shape  and  proportion,  and  meet  for  every 
season ;  but,  more  than  all,  endearing  itself  to  the 
heart  by  a  special  indescribable  grace  that  it  has  not 
in  common  with  any  other  house.  Is  it,  perhaps, 
that  its  walls  stand  around  the  memories  of  our 
childhood,  mother ;  and,  Biton,  of  our  youth ; 
and  the  first  days  of  our  wedded  love,  Sweetness, 
Philotis?" 

"I  love  you   for  your  pious  love   for  it,"   said 


126  THE   SONS  OF  PHILEMON. 

Antiope,  softly.  They  ascended  the  steps  that  led 
to  the  door,  and  entered  the  hall. 

The  triple-llamed  lamps  were  burning,  each  high 
on  its  slender  three-footed  stand.  On  the  higher  end 
of  the  hall  the  tables  were  spread  with  fair  vessels 
on  a  spotless  cloth ;  burnished  dishes,  from  which 
rose  curling  the  savory  steam  ;  baskets  with  wheaten 
bread ;  broad  leaves  full  of  dried  fruits  and  fresh  ; 
olives  of  last  year,  and  the  season's  earliest  gift  of 
green  and  violet  grapes.  By  the  table  that  up 
held  the  broad,  shallow,  ivy-wreathed  cups  and  the 
slender  water-pitchers,  leaned  the  tall  red  earth  jar 
sealed  with  pitch.  To  make  festive  the  house  for 
the  master's  return,  the  maids  of  the  household  had 
hastily  twined  a  great  garland  of  green,  —  sweet- 
smelling  laurel  and  cedar ;  and  that  they  had  fas 
tened  to  each  well-carved  white  beam,  so  that  it  hung 
from  one  to  the  other  all  around  the  hall,  dropping 
gracefully  across  the  clear  spaces  between. 

"  No  hand  shall  wait  on  me  to-night  but  this,"  said 
Attys,  pressing  Philotis'  hand  before  he  dropped  it ; 
"  I  will  have  no  music  but  of  this  mouth's  making. 
You,  my  dear  ones,  shall  be  all  my  pleasure.  Auge 
shall  stay  with  my  boy ;  she  may  walk  with  him  to 
and  fro.  Shut  out  the  others.  We  will  be  merry 
among  ourselves." 

So  the  brothers  sat  on  fleeces  spread  over  polished 
chairs  for  them ;  and  the  women  served  them  famil 
iarly,  at  the  same  time  eating,  they  too. 

Auge,  who  walked  at  the  low  end  of  the  hall, 
where  the  light  was  least,  stilling  Itylus,  who  as  soon 
as  she  stopped  crooning  to  him  broke  forth  in  com- 


THE  SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  127 

plaints,  between  her  snatches  of  song  and  her  ruffled 
reflections  upon  Attys'  interference  with  the  estab 
lished  order  of  baby  management,  cast  her  eyes 
toward  the  little  group  at  the  tables,  and  followed 
their  talk  with  half  an  ear. 

Never  for  a  long  time  had  she  seen  them  merrier ; 
insensibly  it  charmed  even  her,  vexed  as  she  was  for 
the  moment  at  being  left  out  of  their  joy.  Attys, 
flushed  in  the  face,  with  brilliant  eyes,  now  that  the 
hour  for  wine  had  come,  splashed  the  marble  floor 
with  abundant  libations  to  every  god,  and  was  drink 
ing  mad  toasts,  —  to  youth,  then  to  beauty,  to  life,  to 
love,  to  the  light  of  day,  to  the  light  in  Philotis' 
eyes.  Philotis  was  laughing  and  teasing  and  playing, 
and  giving  him  mad  answers,  affecting  to  sing  only 
and  dance  only,  not  to  be  able  that  night  to  speak 
and  walk  like  other  mortals.  She  mixed  him  wine 
and  water,  poised  on  one  foot  like  an  airy  goddess, 
holding  her  curved  arm  high,  and  letting  the  liquid 
flow  in  a  long  lucent  stream  bubbling  over  the  edges 
of  the  cup.  Then  she  knelt,  and  took  from  his  hand 
like  one  of  her  own  tame  doves. 

"I  thought  she  had  grown  less  like  a  young  cat 
on  a  windy  evening,"  mused  Auge.  "  This  innocent 
bit  of  flesh  and  blood  would  seem  heavy  enough  to 
have  steadied  her,  to  have  put  a  little  lead  in  her 
hands  and  feet.  But  no,  —  ever  the  same,  laughing 
and  taking  no  thought.  So  she  was  when  a  green 
bud  of  a  maid ;  so  she  will  be,  I  mistrust,  till  the  red 
rose-leaves  have  dropped  around  the  ripe  cup,  and 
the  frosts  set  in.  Well,  a  light  heart  is  a  good  thing 
to  have.  I  could  wish  one  with  a  good  will  to 


128  THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

Biton,  who  can  look  on  with  scarcely  a  smile  while 
she  plays  those  pretty  pranks.  I  praise  the  gods  who 
determined  that  of  the  two  it  should  be  Attys ; 
though  at  first  —  There,  there  —  "  and  she  devoted 
herself  to  the  son  and  heir,  humming  to  him  a  homely 
ditty  that  she  made  up  as  she  went,  casting  her  eyes 
about  to  help  her  simple  imagination :  "  If  he  will 
lie  still  and  sleep,  to-morrow  I  will  give  to  him  a 
fig,  with  a  clear  honey-tear  in  his  eye.  No  ?  Then  if 
he  sleeps  without  another  wail,  I  give  to  him  what 
he  would  like,  —  a  piece  of  the  sun,  a  large,  gold, 
honey-dripping  slice.  No  ?  Then  if  he  is  a  man, 
and  does  not  kick,  I  teach  him  a  charm  to  make  him 
grow  tall  and  red  in  the  cheeks :  and  that  is  just 
to  sleep  and  sleep.  What  ?  What  ?  No  ?  Hush, 
Itylus,  Itylus,  my  joy,  and  we  go  together  to  gather 
the  stones  by  the  sea,  little  stones  of  every  color; 
we  get  nests  with  eggs,  and  cones  with  winged  nuts 
dropping  out  on  every  side."  And  so  on,  so  on.  At 
last  he  was  lulled  ;  and  she  went  softly  to  sit  on  the 
steps  that  divided  the  hall,  with  the  child  on  her  lap, 
covered  over  with  the  hem  of  her  gown,  —  drowsy 
herself,  wondering  what  hour  of  the  night  it  might 
be,  seeing  the  tapering  flames  but  hazily. 

"  Now  tell  us,  Attys,"  spoke  Autiope,  a  little  weary 
spite  of  herself  with  the  unusual  merriment,  of  which 
she  had  been  rather  a  smiling  spectator  than  a  sharer, 
"  tell  us  the  events  of  your  journey.  We  have  been 
very  patient,  Biton  and  I,  while  you  two  played  the 
madcaps.  And  part  of  your  audience,  which  you 
kept  out  of  bed,  I  must  suppose,  to  be  improved,  is 
dropped  to  sleep,  and  part  is  now  likewise  dropping. 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  129 

You  too  are  tired  and  overwrought ;  this  extravagant 
conduct  I  have  suspected  to  have  its  root  in  an  ec 
stasy  of  weariness.  Dear  son,  you  require  rest.  Tell 
us,  then  we  will  separate ;  for  the  night  is  wearing 
on.  See  already  how  many  shining  constellations  are 
dropped  behind  the  hill ; "  and  she  pointed  where 
between  the  doorposts  was  seen  the  nocturnal  sky. 

"Yes,  dearest  of  mothers,"  said  Attys,  "it  is  time 
to  part ;  yet  you  cannot  know  how  loath  I  am  to 
end  this  happy  hour." 

"  I  understand  the  joy  at  returning  which  makes 
you  so  frank  in  your  tenderness  to  us  all  to-night. 
We  feel  equally  the  sweetness  of  reunion;  but  we 
must  not-  forget  altogether  for  that  the  limits  of  night 
and  day,"  she  added  with  her  good  smile. 

"  Then  pledge  me  in  one  more  cup,"  said  Attys, 
laying  hand  on  the  foot  of  his  cup,  and  looking 
away  from  them  all  out  through  the  door  at  the  sky 
that  the  rosy  light  within  made  look  pale  and  far 
away,  full  of  dim  swarming  stars.  "  Here  is  to  that 
possible  homeless  traveller  that  came  into  my  mind 
before,  who  passes  outside  bent  on  a  journey  of  which 
he  does  not  know  the  end,  and  sees  the  fair  lights 
shining  here,  and  has  a  glimpse  of  this  golden-haired 
beauty,  and  these  fruits,  this  wine,  that  rosy  child, 
this  gracious  mother,  this  brother  so  noble  in  appear 
ance,  so  kind  until  one  day — that  faithful  servant, 
this  happy  home  in  fine,  then  must  turn  his  back  on 
it ;  go  on,  on,  into  the  darkness  —  " 

"Attys,"  said  Biton,  starting  up  and  placing  his 
hand  over  his  brother's,  that  was  unsteadily  lifting 
the  cup,  "  say  at  once  the  worst  there  is  to  say !  I 

9 


130  THE  SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

have  watched  you;  me  you  do  not  deceive.  You 
have  strange  and  awful  news  that  you  fear  to  tell 
Search  my  brain  as  I  will,  I  cannot  divine.  Man,  do 
not  keep  me  dreading  what  it  may  be ! " 

Attys'  hand  fell  to  trembling  under  Biton's,  as  if  a 
needed  support  were  taken  from  under  it;  he  still 
looked  away  with  a  composed  face,  but  the  irrepres 
sible  tears  came  slowly  in  his  eyes. 

All  were  hushed,  wide-eyed,  breathless,  as  if  spell 
bound  ;  until  Philotis  jumped  upon  her  husband,  and 
cried  out  trenchantly,  "  Attys,  is  this  true  ? " 

He  dropped  into  his  seat,  pale,  and  made  a  silent 
struggle  for  his  speech ;  while  Philotis,  shaking  his 
arm,  pressed  on  him  incessantly  her  question,  sharp 
with  fright :  "  Attys,  is  it  true  ?  What  does  Bitoii 
mean  ?  Bad  news  ?  What  bad,  since  you  are  here 
laughing  like  a  boy  all  the  evening  ?  Attys,  Attys, 
answer  me." 

"  Philotis,  it  has  to  come ! "  he  said  despairingly. 
"  Sweetness,  I  would  keep  up  this  pretence  a  little 
longer  to  see  you  laughing  back  at  me,  but  I  have  no 
time  left  to  be  gentle.  I  must  find  the  courage,  and 
that  quickly,  to  say  what  will  alter  this  poor  happy 
face  to  what  I  shall  dread  to  look  on.  Sweetness,  I 
have  not  an  hour's  life  to  give  you." 

Then,  before  any  one  could  frame  a  question,  he 
went  on  quickly,  while  all  the  sickness  of  his  heart 
became  evident  in  the  altered,  uncontrolled  lines  of 
his  face :  "  I  am  pledged  to  return  to  Charpedon. 
I  think  I  must  have  been  mad  !  I  staked  all  on 
my  strength  and  alertness.  Blindman !  I  forgot 
the  gods,  —  that  they  deny  to  mortals  strength  and 


THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON.  131 

cunning  equal  to  their  own.  Charpedon  is  their  tool 
to  punish  my  presumption !  " 

"But,  my  Attys,  be  plain,"  urged  the  little  wife, 
impatiently.  "  I  do  not  understand.  Tell  me  what 
threatens  you.  Do  not  speak  of  the  gods." 

"  Charpedon  ?  "  inquired  Biton,  breathlessly. 

Attys  turned  to  him  with  a  sort  of  bitter  exulta 
tion  piercing  through  his  dismay.  "  You  will  not  be 
ashamed  of  me  now,  Biton.  You  will  be  forced  to 
do  me  right  in  your  mind.  Great  good  may  your  be 
lated  praise  do  my  memory  !  Ears  of  mine  will  not 
find  it  sweet.  I  failed ;  but  if  I  had  succeeded  I 
should  have  left  behind  such  a  heritage  of  honor ! 
Biton,  no  man  single-handed  ever  achieved  such  a 
thing  as  I  hoped  to  have  done.  The  fell  of  the  en 
chanted  roe,  golden-horned  and  golden-hoofed,  that 
Charpedon  inadvertently  shot  and  afterward  hung  in 
the  temple  to  appease  the  powers,  —  my  quest  was 
to  bring  home  that.  Such  a  trophy  !  worth  more  in 
glory  than  all  your  petty  victories  over  that  arrogant 
king." 

"Oh,  rash  !"  gasped  Biton. 

"  Not  rash  if  I  had  succeeded,"  said  Attys,  quickly. 
"  Then  it  would  have  been  bold,  brave,  not  rash.  I 
thought  of  it  night  after  night.  My  plan  was  grow 
ing  in  ray  head  by  day  even  while,  like  a  good,  dull- 
mettled  householder,  I  talked  with  my  steward  of 
gains  and  losses,  sheep  fleeces  and  seedlings.  So  deli 
cate  was  my  stratagem  it  seemed  that  my  hand  was 
already  closing  on  the  prize.  I  thought  by  one  blow 
to  clear  my  name,  to  force  you  to  respect  it,  —  all  you 
who  have  affected  lately  to  look  on  me  from  a  height ; 


132  THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

you,  Biton,  most  of  all,  who  should  have  known  me. 
I  wished  to  do  what  none  of  you  scornful  ones  would 
dare ;  and  I  did  it.  But  it  will  not  avail  my  good 
name  much.  Foolhardy  and  vain  and  weak  of  judg 
ment  will  be  all  I  get,  because  instead  of  bringing 
home  the  golden-horned  roe,  the  enemy's  best  treasure, 
for  us  to  hang  in  our  temple,  I  return  to  perish  for 
sacrilege." 

"  Beturn  ? "  breathed  Philotis,  with  a  blank,  puzzled 
face,  terrified  without  understanding  the  danger,  and 
instinctively  laying  her  hands  fast  on  his  arm  to 
assure  herself  that  she  had  him  and  could  keep 
him. 

Attys  nodded  drearily.  "  It  would  have  been  more 
beseeming  the  man  I  was  attempting  to  be,  to  have 
perished  scornfully,  without  asking  for  reprieve,  de 
fying  them  to  the  last.  I  humbled  myself  to  sue  for 
time  to  take  one  poor  farewell  of  this,  and  this,  and 
this.  It  seemed  I  could  not  die  unsatisfied.  The 
longing  to  see  you  once  more,  Philotis,  my  unhappy 
girl,  was  stronger  than  shame.  Blame  me  not.  The 
mad  selfish  thirst  for  the  sweetness  of  your  grieving 
for  me  was  mixed  with  a  wish  too  to  spare  you,  who 
have  never  known  a  grief.  This  is  hard,  —  oh,  hard  ! 
But  think,  poor  Sweetness,  if  it  had  come  to  you 
through  a  stranger  perhaps  when  you  were  spinning, 
singing  to  yourself,  without  a  thought  of  care,  that 
Attys  had  perished,  that  your  eyes  should  never  find 
him,  that  already  he  was  gathered  with  yesterday's 
sunsets,  with  last  year's  snow,  that  he  had  gone 
whither  the  empty  shades  —  I  had  orders,  too,  to 
leave  behind  me.  Biton,"  he  turned  to  his  brother 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  133 

with  a  face  that  dismissed  all  softness,  his  eyes  ex 
pressing  between  a  threat  and  a  command,  "  once 
we  vied  together,  and  you  overcame.  Again  we 
vied,  and  I  outrivalled  you.  That  strife  was  fair. 
Your  gifts  equalled  mine.  You  were  at  hand  to 
protect  your  rights.  It  was  not  my  blame  that  you 
lacked  ardor  and  confidence,  and  fortune  perhaps. 
But  there  is  no  fair  strife  with  the  dead.  When  I 
am  blind  and  deaf,  helpless  and  unsightly,  held  well 
down  in  my  place  by  the  earth  heaped  on  me,  while 
you  have  your  magnificent  strength,  your  supple 
motion,  and  warm  color,  the  light  in  your  eyes,  music 
at  will  in  your  tongue,  then  if  you  strive  with  me 
again  for  the  prize  I  frankly  not  insidiously  won 
from  you,  then  I  say  you  do  what  a  coward  does. 
You  understand  me,  Biton  ;  do  not  measure  strength 
with  me  when  I  am  dead." 

"  But,  dead  ?  "  said  Philotis,  after  long  tormenting 
his  arm  to  gain  his  full  attention,  —  "  why  do  you  say 
when  you  are  dead  ?  Why  can  I  not  be  made  to  un 
derstand  ?  It  seems  to  me  I  am  dreaming.  You  are 
here.  I  am  holding  you.  Charpedon  cannot  get 
you,  —  here,  on  your  own  land,  in  your  house,  among 
your  people.  There  is  Biton  too;  and  then  all  the 
huntsmen.  Charpedon  —  " 

"  I  must  go  to  him,  of  myself,  alone.  Philotis, 
I  took  a  solemn  oath,  —  by  Philemon,  my  father.  I 
had  to  swear  so  that  they  should  know  I  would  not 
break  my  word,  else  I  could  not  have  been  here." 

"  Attys,"  cried  out  Philotis,  beside  herself  with 
terror,  "  you  are  never  going  back !  Are  you 
mad?" 


134  THE  SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

Antiope,  whom  dismay  seemed  to  have  turned  to 
an  image  of  stone,  here  lifted  her  hands  and  clasped 
them  with  a  moan,  full  of  pity  and  pain  for  what  she 
felt  coming.  Auge  wailed  in  echo. 

"  Attys,  Attys,"  insisted  Philotis,  trying  to  speak 
plainly  and  in  a  moderate  voice,  "  are  you  leaving 
me  ?  Do  you  mean  that  you,  free  now,  whole,  are 
going  where  they  will  kill  you  ?  Don't  turn  your 
face  away  like  that.  Don't  cry,  I  have  no  time  to 
cry.  I  must  understand  this  thing  at  once.  Attys, 
do  you  mean —  Oh,  immortal  gods,"  she  screamed 
aloud,  "  he  has  said  it,  and  I  have  understood !  He 
wishes  to  forsake  me." 

She  shrank  from  him,  and  looked  wildly  about  for 
a  moment,  then  stared  at  Attys  with  a  strange  cold 
ness,  as  if  doubtful  that  he  could  be  the  man  she 
knew ;  and  finding  something  in  the  familiar  sweet 
ness  of  his  features  to  reassure  her  of  his  being  in 
deed  the  man  who  worshipped  her,  who  had  never 
willingly  caused  her  even  a  little  sorrow,  she  flung 
herself  on  his  breast,  and  closed  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  dragging  down  his  head  to  her  cheek ;  then  she 
half  laughed,  with  white  lips,  as  she  crushed  him  with 
all  the  strength  of  her  arms.  "  No,  that  would  not  be 
easy, —  to  leave  me.  We  are  safe.  Attys  cannot  go; 
he  must  kill  me  first,  —  kill  his  love,  Philotis,  who  has 
given  him  everything,  and  would  have  given  him  a 
thousand  times  more,  and  a  thousand  thousand  times 
over.  Now,  that  would  be  grateful !  Philotis,  who 
—  he  says  it  himself — never  knew  a  grief;  who 
sang  for  him,  and  danced  for  him,  and  did  up  her 
hair  to  please  him,  and  had  not  a  thought  in  the 


THE   SONS  OF  PHILEMON.  135 

world  but  to  do  him  good  and  pleasure ;  who  loved 
him,  beside,  with  such  madness  that  it  seemed  the 
effect  of  a  charm.  All  her  thoughts  were  knit  to 
him ;  she  did  not  draw  breath  but  in  some  reference 
to  him.  And  now  I  will  tell  you,  dear.  When  I  was 
a  girl  I  was  truly  happy.  Everything  was  a  joy  to 
me  all  day  long,  —  the  sky,  the  trees,  the  birds,  the 
flowers,  the  faces;  my  heart  was  light  as  the  air. 
But  since  we  were  wedded  —  it  is  strange  —  I  have 
never  been  happy  as  before.  I  would  not  have 
changed  back  again,  —  oh,  no !  but  my  heart  was 
never  once  light  again.  That  was  because  I  loved 
you  so.  I  have  looked  out  into  the  sky  sometimes  as 
I  sang  one  of  my  foolish  songs  people  laugh  at,  and 
wished  I  could  for  a  moment  stop  thinking  of  you, 
stop. being  aware  of  you,  stop  yearning  for  you  with 
every  fibre  of  my  being,  —  for  I  was  so  tired  that  it 
was  almost  pain ;  but  I  could  never  stop.  I  began 
at  once  to  think,  instead,  how  to  make  you  love  me 
always  more,  always  more.  Was  it  so  with  you  too, 
dear  ?  At  first  I  know  you  loved  me  most.  It  came 
slowly  to  me.  I  could  have  made  you  suffer  then 
if  I  had  chosen.  Instead  —  And  now  you  wish  to 
reward  me,  —  me,  who  —  But  Itylus,  —  even  though 
you  have  forgotten  his  mother,  and  bitterly  hate  her, 
as  it  seems,  — you  could  not  wish  to  wrong  him,  our 
Itylus ! " 

"  Unhappy  woman,"  cried  Bitou,  laying  hands  on 
her  shoulders,  and  trying  with  as  gentle  firmness 
as  he  could  command  to  separate  her  from  Attys, 
"  that  man  is  as  much  dead  as  if  he  had  died  at 
the  moment  when  he  took  his  oath !  Leave  him  his 


136  THE  SONS  OF  PHILEMON. 

strength.  Do  not  tempt  him  to  consider  even  the 
course  of  never-ending  shame.  Be  a  little  brave,  if 
you  can,  for  his  sake." 

"  Biton,"  denounced  Philotis,  furiously,  turning  her 
face  to  him  without  losing  her  hold  on  Attys,  "  be 
silent,  —  you  at  least,  —  or  I  shall  say  such  things  ! 
You  have  always  hated  him,  —  you  ! " 

"  Mother,  speak  to  this  blind  creature ! "  said  Bi 
ton.  "  Make  her  understand.  You  bear  witness  for 
me  that  I  cannot  be  hating  Attys.  Though  you  do 
not  love  me  as  you  do  him,  you  must  do  ine  justice 
to  believe  that.  You  know  that  we  fought ;  you 
have  seen  that  we  have  never  been  the  same  since. 
If  we  had  been  but  a  little  greater  of  heart,  he  would 
have  forgiven  my  victory,  and  I  forgiven  his  revenge. 
But  at  this  moment  how  can  any  hate  of  mine  speak 
or  be  alive  ? " 

"  Bred  of  love  or  hate,  you  will  have  your  wish, 
Biton,"  said  Attys.  "  My  time  grows  short.  I  should 
even  now  be  on  my  way  over  the  hills.  I  must  be 
at  the  appointed  spot  before  the  temple  at  dawn  of 
the  third  day  from  my  leaving.  Oh,  Philotis,  take 
comfort,  take  comfort !  Mother,  speak  to  her,  —  you  ! 
Auge,  place  little  Itylus  in  her  arms.  Oh,  be  good  to 
her,  all !  She  lias  never  known  a  grief." 

"  Attys,"  said  Philotis,  clinging  and  refusing  to  be 
put  aside,  while  ever-growing  terror  painted  her  face 
with  mortal  hues,  and  her  voice  came  strained,  "  you 
shall  not  go ;  that  is  all.  I  refuse,  refuse.  You 
think  it  a  great  and  meritorious  thing,  perhaps,  to 
leave  wife  and  child,  as  Biton  counsels,  who  has  no 
heart,  no  human  bowels ;  but  you  shall  listen  to  me. 


THE   SONS  OF  PHILEMON.  137 

Charpedon  may  wait,  he  and  his  bloodthirsty  dogs, 
in  the  dawn  by  the  temple.  We  shall  not  come ;  we 
shall  be  far.  No  one  shall  know  where ;  no  one  see 
us  again.  And  whoever  cries  out  on  Attys,  who 
swore  by  his  father's  shade  and  did  not  keep  his  oath, 
might  as  well  be  rating  the  empty  wind ;  that  shall 
not  disturb  us.  I  am  ready.  Give  me  the  child, 
my  sandals,  my  cloak.  There  are  deep  woods  wrhere 
we  can  live  in  caves.  Ah,  thank  the  heavens,  a  ray 
of  light !  My  father,  —  we  can  go  to  him ;  it  is  not 
far.  I  know  the  way,  —  by  the  sea.  There  lie  his 
ships.  We  will  hide  in  the  dark  hold,  and  sail  away, 
away,  and  not  be  heard  of  again.  In  a  foreign  place 
we  will  obscurely  live,  and  still  be  warm  in  the  sun, 
and  love  again,  and  grow  old,  secure,  serene,  in  spite 
of  them  all." 

Auge,  sobbing,  had  approached ;  and  now,  kneel 
ing,  held  out  his  child  to  him,  to  aid  her  mistress  in 
softening  his  heart.  Antiope  sat  like  a  statue,  star 
ing  ahead  with  dilated,  darkening  eyes,  saying  no 
word. 

The  sweat  stood  on  Attys'  brow. 

Philotis  prayed  on  incoherently,  breaking  her 
spirit  against  his  resistance,  as  a  hapless,  captured 
lark  against  the  bars,  interspersing  her  prayers  with 
moans,  her  voice  growing  fainter,  her  hold  less 
sure. 

At  last  her  passion-given  strength  was  gone ;  her 
arms  relaxed  and  dropped  across  his  lap,  her  dis 
ordered  head  between  them.  She  lay  still,  unable 
to  contend  any  more,  only  vaguely  shaken  by  long 
tremors. 


138  THE  SONS   OF  PHILEMON. 

Now  Attys  could  escape.  There  was  only  to  lift 
her,  to  lay  her  easily  down  where  Auge  would  have 
ministered  to  her,  —  restored  her  while  he  sped  to 
his  doom. 

Attys  turned  up  the  poor  sweet  face,  around  which 
the  light  of  its  gay  red-gold  hair  looked  harsh  and 
unnatural  now  that  it  was  all  dead  white  like  silver. 
Her  lips  were  without  color  or  breath ;  under  each 
drooping  eyelid  shone  a  scant  tear. 

Attys  pushed  back  the  light  lovely  locks  with  a 
tender,  shaking  hand ;  bent,  and  pressed  his  moaning 
lips  to  her  temples  and  eyes  ;  then  drew  away,  and 
took  her  cold  round  arms  to  lift  her  by  and  put  her 
from  him ;  then  kissed  the  helpless  arms,  and  feel 
ing  a  strange  madness  come  over  him,  went  back 
with  hungry  lips  to  her  eyes  and  hair.  He  could  not 
steal  away  from  her  like  a  thief.  He  kissed  her  to 
bring  her  back;  he  must  see  her  soul  in  her  eyes 
again,  like  a  desolate  face  in  the  window  to  watch 
him  on  his  way  with  love  and  blessings.  She  did 
not  move.  For  a  moment  the  awful  thought  sub 
dued  him  that  she  was  dead  already,  —  killed  by  his 
unkindness  ;  and  he  kissed  her  mouth  madly,  utter 
ing  a  cry  of  terror  when  it  would  not  respond,  and 
applying  himself  with  a  sort  of  frenzy  to  giving  it 
warmth  from  his  own.  At  last  it  stirred ;  then,  his 
madness  complete,  he  said  recklessly,  in  her  ear, 
speaking  sharply  so  as  to  reach  her  soul  through  her 
languid  returning  senses :  "  Sweetness,  do  you  hear 
me  ?  Awake !  Well  you  said.  It  is  all  folly,  — 
direst  folly !  Be  glad  again :  I  have  chosen.  To  your 
father's,  —  the  ship,  —  flight !  " 


THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON.  139 

Antiope  stirred  as  one  awaking. 
Biton  uttered  a  great  oath,  and  dashed  across  the 
floor  through  the  open  door  out  into  the  night. 

"  Son  of  Philemon,"  spoke  Charpedon,  "  the  third 
day  no  more  than  dawns,  and  you  are  here.  No  less 
was  expected  of  you.  Still,  I  rejoice  now  with  a 
freer  mind  that  I  found  it  in  my  honor  to  trust  to 
the  honor  of  an  enemy.  Your  audacious  crime  is 
punishable  by  death.  My  grace  to  you  in  respect  of 
your  father's  great  name  and  your  faith  preserved,  is 
the  choice  of  your  means  of  death." 

"  I  choose,"  said  the  doomed  man,  coldly,  "  to  leap, 
myself,  from  the  rock  there  into  the  sea." 

"  The  cliff  is  high ;  the  sea  below  is  fretted  with 
foam  from  sunken  rocks.  You  have  your  wish." 

One  side  of  the  white  round  temple  on  the  cliff 
shone  rosy  with  reflection  of  the  kindling  east ;  the 
other  was  cool  and  blue.  Against  the  wall,  among 
the  pillars,  were  the  grave  priests  with  flowing  robes 
and  chapleted  hair,  the  white-clothed  priestesses  who 
bore  in  woven  baskets  the  fruits  and  flowers  of  sacri 
fice.  On  the  polished  marble  steps  stood  the  soldiers 
gathered  on  either  side  of  the  gray  king,  who  leaned 
on  his  spear  looking  down  on  the  man  who  had  come 
to  give  up  himself.  In  the  open  space  before  the 
temple  crowded  the  curious  people.  The  air  was 
dewy,  full  of  the  smell  and  vague  murmur  of  the  sea 
that  stretched  a  darkly  blue  barren  plain  as  far  as 
eye  could  distinguish. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  say  ? "  asked  Charpedon. 

"  Nothing,  but  that  these  events  should  not  be  kept 


140  THE  SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

secret;  that  the  name  of  Attys,  son  of  Philemon, 
when  his  fate  is  known,  should  be  duly  honored 
among  his  own." 

"  Your  punishment  will  not  be  hidden  from  them. 
It  shall  duly  discourage  the  bold  and  sacrilegious. 
Look  your  last  at  the  sun." 

"King,  were  it  not  well,"  spoke  to  the  sovereign 
a  gaunt,  large-eyed  young  priest  who  stood  by  his 
right  shoulder,  "to  hold  a  moment,  until  we  shall 
have  heard  what  brings  yonder  man,  who  comes  over 
the  ground  swiftly  as  a  messenger  bringing  news  of 
importance  ? " 

The  king  looked  along  the  cliff  where  the  priest 
pointed,  and  saw  indeed  a  man  advancing  with 
such  speed  as  must  impress  the  on-looker  with  the 
importance  of  his  mission. 

Every  eye  was  turned  to  him,  but  that  of  the  one 
who  was  taking  his  last  look  at  the  sun  as  it  lifted 
itself  placidly  out  of  the  band  of  pearly  and  rosy 
vapor,  cleared  its  glance,  and  spread  its  broad  smile 
over  the  quickening  waters. 

The  messenger  now  reached  the  steps  of  the  tem 
ple,  and  cried,  panting  with  speed,  "  Late  ?  Am  I 
late  ?  I  was  hindered ;  but  I  have  not  rested  on  the 
way.  I  am  here,  and  the  day  has  not  much  more 
than  dawned." 

Charpedon  looked  in  wonder  from  him  to  the 
captive  who  stood  unguarded  in  the  clear  space  the 
crowd  made  for  him  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  The 
captive,  at  the  new-comer's  voice,  had  looked  up 
with  a  strange  face. 

"  Who  is  this  ? "  asked  Charpedon. 


THE  SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  141 

"  My  brother,  —  Biton,"  said  the  prisoner. 

Then  the  messenger  turned  and  faced  him. 

The  two  brothers  looked  in  each  other's  eyes 
without  words.  The  crowd  was  silent  with  wonder ; 
and"  the  king  stared  from  one  to  the  other  brother, 
unable  to  say  now  which  had  been  taken  three  days 
before. 

"  I  am  not  Biton,"  said  the  messenger  at  last,  the 
color  coming  back  to  his  face.  "  I  am  Attys,  Phile 
mon's  second  son." 

"  So  declares  of  himself  the  other  man.  And  it 
is  wondrous  strange ;  I  could  believe  either,  were  his 
companion  not  in  sight.  Men,  is  one  here  that  can 
tell  which  of  the  two  it  was  we  took  in  the  act  ? " 

"  I  am  Attys,  I ! "  said  one  of  the  brothers,  eagerly. 
"  Cannot  you  remember  the  trick  of  my  face,  as  dif 
ferent  from  his  as  my  mother's  face  from  my  father's  ? 
I  can  give  proofs  too.  It  was  by  the  third  pillar 
there  I  was  taken." 

"  His  brotherly  love  makes  him  over-eager,"  spoke 
the  other.  "  Can  you  not  tell  the  accent  of  truth 
from  madness  ?  I  will  describe  the  interior  of  the 
temple." 

"King,"  said  to  his  perplexed  majesty  the  priest 
who  had  spoken  before,  "  do  you  see  yon  dark  figure 
advancing  ?  I  would  counsel  that  we  suspend  judg 
ment  until  it  has  come  to  us  and  delivered  its  errand. 
My  spirit  warns  me  it  will  be  of  moment.  See  with 
what  solemn  dignity  it  approaches  —  or  is  it  weari 
ness  ?  It  is  a  woman." 

The  crowd  opened  before  the  tall  dark  figure. 

"  Mother ! "  escaped  the  lips  of  one  brother. 


142  THE   SONS   OF   PHILEMON. 

Antiope  looked,  faltered.  Then  with  a  fire  of 
terrible,  anguished  joy,  her  face  lighted  from  within. 
She  moved  toward  the  temple,  and  knelt  at  the 
feet  of  the  king.  "  Ransom,  O  King  !  —  I  hring 
ransom ! " 

"  Noble  lady,"  said  Charpedon,  his  stern  face 
softening  a  shade  at  sight  of  her  solemn  mourning, 
"  in  good  time  you  come  to  preserve  to  your  age 
a  son.  Which  of  these  two  is  Attys  the  offender, 
which  Biton?" 

Antiope  turned  her  still,  strong  face  to  the  crowd, 
looked  at  Biton  and  Attys.  Biton's  face,  as  her 
glance  dwelt  on  it,  melted  for  the  first  time  in  many 
months,  and  their  eyes  recognized  and  greeted  each 
other  back  across  the  long  misunderstanding;  Bitou's 
eyes  brightened  and  grew  wet,  but  no  tear  fell  from 
them  ;  his  eyelids  did  not  tremble.  He  looked  away 
over  the  sea,  and  the  fresh  wind  dried  them. 

And  Attys'  burning  face  trembled  and  glowed  and 
shone  with  repentance,  —  with  gladness  that  he  had 
vindicated  himself  in  his  brother's  thought,  with 
assurance  of  a  love  that  is  stronger  than  jealousy. 
He  smiled  at  the  death  he  saw  near,  suddenly  recon 
ciled.  He  lifted  his  head  as  if  the  wreathing  curls 
had  been  a  crown  of  glory,  and  waited  his  mother's 
word  to  take  his  rights. 

From  Attys  to  Biton  Antiope  looked,  while  all 
waited  breathless.  She  met  the  strong  compulsion 
of  Biton's  eye  and  the  prayer  in  Attys'  that  she 
should  pronounce  quickly.  She  made  as  if  to  speak ; 
then  the  strength  failed  completely  from  her  face. 
The  two  men  leaned  to  her,  intent  on  her  lips. 


THE   SONS   OF  PHILEMON.  143 

She  looked  at  the  king  with  all  her  mother-soul 
in  her  eyes ;  she  put  out  her  hands  and  cried,  "  O 
king,  I  cannot  —  cannot  choose  between  them  ! " 

And  godlike  Charpedon  —  so  the  story  ends  — 
forgave. 


THEODOLIND. 


10 


THEODOLIND. 


the  harsh,  triumphant  shout  that 
-L  shook  the  rafters  at  entrance  of  the  captive 
sons  of  Hortewein,  no  ear  but  one  caught  the  sound 
of  a  half-stifled  moan  of  pity.  That  was  Cynric's. 
He  turned  his  eyes  quickly  on  the  queen.  The  lips 
that  had  involuntarily  cried  out  were  still  parted  ; 
the  queen's  eyes  were  fixed,  staring  and  anguished, 
upon  the  wretches  that  had  been  brutally  dragged 
and  driven  in,  and  now  stood  opposing  their  fierce, 
proud,  bloody  faces  to  the  taunts  of  the  sons  of  Ulf, 
the  mocking  of  the  earls. 

They  were  seven,  —  each  with  his  arms  fastened 
behind  him,  —  bound  together  monstrously  in  a  sheaf. 

The  youngest  was  little  more  than  a  boy.  The 
blood  from  a  broad  gash  in  his  head  had  flowed  over 
his  hair  and  face  ;  it  had  settled  darkly  around  one 
eye,  that  glared  grimly  bright  and  blue  from  its  tragic 
setting.  He  showed  his  teeth  like  a  wolf;  all  his 
young  muscles  were  swollen  with  the  impotent  effort 
to  burst  the  thongs  that  held  him. 

His  brothers,  bleeding  and  torn,  like  him  were  fit 
fully  struggling,  —  all  but  one,  whose  shoulder  an  axe 
had  nigh  severed  from  his  trunk.  This  one's  knees 
bent  under  him  ;  twice  and  thrice  he  stiffened  them 


148  TIIEODOLIND. 

by  an  effort  that  made  the  blood  rain  freshly  down 
his  side.  He  tried  to  raise  his  head,  clothed  with  long 
red-gold  locks,  once  more  to  breathe  back  hatred  and 
defiance  at  his  enemies ;  but  it  had  grown  too  heavy, 
it  dropped  on  his  breast,  and  rolled  helplessly  from 
side  to  side  with  the  violent  motions  of  his  fellow- 
prisoners. 

The  last  of  Ulf s  sons,  the  younger  Ulf,  shook  his 
fiery  mane,  and  pointing  to  the  wound  in  the  dying 
man's  shoulder,  boasted  loudly  :  "  'T  was  I  did  that ! 
A  handsome  hole ! " 

The  appearance  of  the  victors  was  little  less  grace 
less  than  that  of  the  vanquished  :  they  had  sat  down 
without  attempt  to  remove  the  signs  of  the  fight ;  the 
hands  that  grasped  the  ale-horns  were  a  grewsome 
purple.  It  was  but  the  fever  of  triumph,  the  flush  of 
drink,  kept  the  young  men  as  yet  from  feeling  the 
smart  of  their  bare  wounds. 

The  elder  Ulf  looked  from  the  sons  of  Hortewein 
to  his  own  wild  brood,  and  his  deep-set  eyes  warmed 
with  the  pleasure  he  had  in  the  sight. 

And  Cynric,  while  the  storm  kept  up  its  din  out 
side,  and  the  drunken  warriors  again,  after  the  pris 
oners  had  been  removed,  filled  the  smoky  hall  with 
their  savage  songs,  sat  observing  the  unconscious 
queen. 

This  man  was  not  so  rough  as  his  companions. 
Not  often  did  he  drink  till  his  brain  was  drowned ; 
he  could  fight  as  well  as  the  best  of  Ulf  s  sons,  slay 
ing  with  as  scant  remorse,  but  battle  was  not  to  him 
the  breath  of  his  lungs. 

His  garb  betrayed  a  hint  of  research :  the  hides 


THEODOLIND.  149 

that  formed  his  tunic  were  not  the  shaggy  fells  that 
covered  the  greater  number  of  his  fellows ;  the  skins 
were  dressed  and  stained  in  a  dark  blue  color  with 
rude  designs  of  dragons.  His  left  arm,  lying  near 
Ulfs  and  showing  slender  beside  it,  was  adorned 
with  heavy  bracelets,  both  of  gold  and  iron.  He 
was  darker  of  hair  and  cheek  and  eye  than  any 
present.  The  expression  of  his  features  was  subtler 
than  the  others' ;  his  smile  was  intelligent,  cunning ; 
his  locks  fell  composedly  along  the  sides  of  his  narrow 
face.  He  was  said  to  have  travelled  far,  to  have  seen 
men  and  manners,  visited  even  great  Eome.  He  was 
reputed  wise ;  the  king  considered  him,  took  counsel 
with  him.  On  occasions  he  had  been  the  king's 
envoy :  when  the  British  Gortimer,  weary  of  war, 
sued  for  peace,  and  offered  as  pledge  of  good  faith  his 
child  Theodolind  to  be  Ulf's  wife,  Cynric  was  mes 
senger  between  the  kings;  and  when  Ulf,  secretly 
weary  too  of  thankless  warfare  against  a  beggared 
people,  dwellers  in  a  hard  mountainous  region,  ac 
cepted,  it  had  been  Cynric's  to  bring  the  bride  to 
her  new  lord's  home. 

He  thought  of  it  now  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  took 
account  of  the  change  in  her  face  since  the  day  it 
first  shone  on  his  sight. 

He  recalled  the  slow  journeying  over  the  moun 
tains  ;  in  memory  again  he  turned  back  from  a  high 
point  to  observe  the  procession  moving  up  the  steep 
road,  —  the  men,  swinging  bucklers  clashing  with 
each  stride,  helping  themselves  with  their  spears  that 
rang  against  the  rock ;  the  slaves  of  the  conquered 
bending  beneath  their  burdens ;  and  lower,  on  an 


150  THEODOLIND. 

uncovered  litter  borne  by  stout-limbed  carles,  Gor- 
tiiner's  daughter,  motionless,  with  eyes  closed,  save 
when  perhaps  at  sight  of  an  eagle  the  men  gave  a 
shout. 

Well  he  remembered  the  face  as  it  then  appeared,  — 
white,  sad,  but  the  long  oval  of  the  cheek  sweetly 
curved ;  the  outlines  soft,  maidenish ;  the  eyes  full 
of  that  dewy  light  young  eyes  retain  while  sorrow 
is  new. 

Now  the  bloom  was  forgotten  from  her  cheek ;  its 
growing  hollowness  could  not  be  hidden  by  the  two 
large,  fair  braids  that  fell  on  either  side  of  her  face 
down  her  bosom.  Her  lips  were  no  more  than  a 
very  humble,  sickly-red  rose.  In  the  instinct  of  her 
face  to  express  nothing,  all  of  its  life  had  incontrol- 
lably  taken  refuge  in  the  eyes ;  when  the  shadowy 
lids  shut  these  in,  the  face  became  as  an  effigy  hewn 
delicately  in  pure  stone. 

And  Cynric  at  his  leisure  studying  it  unnoticed, 
while  all  around  him  were  noisily  occupied  with 
wassail  and  song,  thought  long  thoughts. 

The  disorderly  clamor  gradually  died  away.  The 
lights  went  out,  burned  down  to  the  end.  The  rosy 
glare  from  the  hearth  served  but  very  dimly  to  reveal 
the  revellers  sleeping. 

The  storm  had  passed.  No  sound  was  heard  but 
heavy  breathing,  with  now  and  then  an  uneasy  moan 
from  some  hero  who  felt  the  stab  of  his  wound 
through  his  sleep. 

Then  Ulf,  who  sat  nearest  the  fire  with  his  head 
dropped  on  his  breast  and  his  great  legs  thrust  out 
among  his  dogs,  dreamed  a  dream.  A  snow-flake 


THEODOLIND.  151 

isettled  on  his  hand,  lingered  a  brief  space,  and  melted, 
leaving  a  light,  chill  impression.  Then  a  cold,  soft 
bird  dropped  against  his  breast,  fluttered  there  an 
instant  half  frightened,  pressed  closer,  closer  against 
him  as  if  seeking  warmth. 

Such  sharpness  of  reality  belonged  to  his  dream 
that  he  unclosed  his  eyes  to  see  what  manner  of 
bird  it  was ;  dimly  he  perceived  a  face  not  far  from 
his  own,  and  a  hand  laid  on  his  breast. 

He  blinked  sleepily  a  few  times,  scarce  knowing 
if  he  were  awake  ;  at  last  strained  his  eyes  wide,  and 
through  the  gloom  had  a  darkling,  dubious  vision  of 
his  wife. 

The  dying  firelight  just  touched  her  hair,  and  fol 
lowed  the  line  of  her  robe  down  her  shoulder.  She 
seemed  to  be  kneeling,  and  touching  his  breast. 

Assured  then  that  he  dreamed,  he  closed  his  eyes 
again,  dropped  his  head  so  that  the  locks  of  his  hair 
and  beard  mingled,  and  was  relapsing  into  leaden 
unconsciousness,  when  he  thought  the  bird  stirred 
impatiently,  and  he  heard  himself  called  in  smothered 
tones,  "Ulf!  Ulf!" 

"Ha!"  he  answered  aloud,  starting  and  tossing 
back  his  hair. 

He  bent  forward  and  peered  into  the  face.  It  re 
coiled  a  little,  then  offered  itself  steadily  to  be 
scanned.  His  breath  swept  it.  He  could  but  see 
two  great  shadows  that  were  the  woman's  eyes,  and  a 
glint  of  gold  where  the  light  faintly  smote  her  hair. 
He  leaned  back,  full  of  a  drowsy  wonder. 

Then,  afraid  lest  he  should  be  off  in  slumber  again, 
she  called  low,  "Ulf!  Ulf!" 


152  THEODOLIND. 

"  What  wilt  thou  ?  "  he  asked  aloud. 

He  felt  both  of  her  hands  clasping  his,  her  fore 
head  pressed  against  it.  His  dazed  astonishment 
grew,  to  discover  that  she  wept. 

"  That  they  may  not  die  ! "  she  murmured. 

"  Die,  woman  ?  "  And  he  cast  about  in  his  slow, 
clouded  mind  for  an  interpretation  of  her  words. 
"  Who  dieth  ?  " 

"  Those  unfortunate  souls,  —  Hortewein's  sons." 

The  king  made  a  sound,  as  if  the  lion  should 
laugh,  and  thrust  back  the  kneeling  figure. 

"  Yea,  they  die  to-morrow  betimes.  So  we  crush 
the  dragon's  brood,"  he  growled ;  "  so  we  stamp  out 
the  nest  of  young  adders  ! " 

"  Ulf,"  pleaded  Theodolind,  seizing  his  hand  again 
in  the  earnest  clutch  of  her  slender  fingers.  "  Dost 
thou  not  know  what  pity  is  ?  Hast  never  heard  of 
mercy  ?  So  will  God  do  to  thee  as  thou  dost  to  other 
men." 

'  Yea,  good.  And  if  I  am  taken  in  battle  I  shall 
not  look  for  life." 

"  Ulf,  Ulf,  think  for  a  breathing-while  that  thou 
art  taken  ;  nay,  think  that  thy  best-beloved  is  taken, 
thy  dearest  son,  the  image  of  thee,  perpetuator  of 
thy  name,  the  younger  Ulf.  He  is  wounded  sore. 
His  heart  is  faint  with  the  blood  he  hath  spilled : 
courage  oozeth  out  with  the  crimson  stream.  He 
hath  been  haled  by  the  gory  hair  before  the  enemy ; 
cruelly  mocked  hath  he  been,  heavy  blows  hath  he 
endured  —  " 

"  Ha ! "  exclaimed  Ulf,  through  shut  teeth. 

"They  have  cast  him  in  a  cold  keep,  in  black  dark- 


THEODOLIND.  153 

ness,  to  await  death.  And  there  must  he  not  think 
a  little  of  the  fair  earth  he  leaveth,  the  good  life  in 
the  sunshine  ?  Must  not  his  green  youth  yearn  for 
the  delights  that  had  been  promised  him,  and  that 
he  shall  exchange  for  a  joyless  bed  of  earth  wet  in 
the  wintry  rain,  or  the  maws  of  kites  and  eagles  ? 
Think  that  the  younger  Ulf  is  at  his  death !  and 
that  even  when  there  is  no  hope  more  for  him,  com 
passion  moveth  the  heart  of  his  enemy,  —  thy  Ulf 
may  go  !  Wilt  thou  not  bless  the  pity  that  saved  him  ? 
Oh,  pity  is  fair,  mercy  is  good ;  pity  thy  own  soul, 
Ulf,  have  mercy  on  thyself.  God  will  remember  that 
thou  didst  spare  others,  when  he  judgeth  thee  — " 

"Thy  God  shall  not  judge  me  at  all,"  cried  Ulf, 
weary  of  her  words.  "  My  gods  shall  praise  me  for 
those  I  slew,  and  give  me  the  old  gray  fox,  Horte- 
wein,  his  skull  for  me  to  drink  from.  Merrily  will  I 
quaff—" 

"  Oh,  think  not  so,  my  husband  !  Thy  gods  shall 
then  long  have  perished,  —  faded  in  the  twilight  that 
hath  no  end.  It  shall  surely  be  the  Prince  of  Peace 
calleth  thee  to  account  for  thy  blood-red  hands,  the 
mild  Shepherd  of  Men.  It  will  not  be  enough  in 
that  day  that  with  all  my  breaking  heart  I  plead  for 
thee." 

"  Lovest  then  thou  me  ? "  asked  Ulf,  in  stupid 
wonder. 

"  I  love  thy  soul,  —  all  human  souls,"  said 
Theodolind. 

The  king  leaned  back,  possessed  with  a  dreaminess 
that  was  not  all  of  returning  sleep.  He  no  more 
heeded  her  words,  —  foolish  woman's  babble  ;  but 


154  THEODOLIND. 

in  the  half-waking  condition  of  his  spirit  he  was 
soothed  by  the  sobbing  murmur  of  her  voice:  it 
gave  him  a  luxurious  sense  of  his  strength,  to  feel 
her  imploring,  as  it  were  an  eager  wave  beating  and 
foaming,  chafing  and  lapping,  at  the  base  of  a  rock. 
But  most  he  was  pleased  —  yet  in  an  unformed,  slug 
gish  sort  —  with  the  unused  sensation  of  her  silken 
fingers  curling  like  obstinate  tendrils  of  the  vine 
around  his  strong  forefinger  and  thumb. 

The  barbarian's  mind  moved  slowly.  Did  the 
woman  think,  he  hazily  mused,  that  Ulf  could  be 
softened  by  the  falling  of  a  little  clear,  bitter  water, — 
tears;  or  yet  moved  by  awe  at  thought  of  a  time 
when  he  should  stand  for  judgment  before  a  foreign 
god  not  friends  with  him  ?  Nay,  by  the  Thunderer, 
he  would  fight  that  peace-loving  god  and  overthrow 
him !  And  if  his  own  heroic  masters  must  in  the 
end  be  merged  in  twilight,  —  as  indeed  a  solemn 
prophecy  had  whispered,  —  he  should  himself  sleep 
in  the  starless  shade  along  with  them,  his  battle-axe 
at  his  side,  his  hollow  shield  over  his  heart.  What 
might  she  think  of  him,  this  puny  daughter  of  Gor- 
tinier  ?  Six  moons  had  she  lived  under  his  roof,  a 
little-valued  hostage.  Had  he  shown  her  one  small 
sign  of  favor,  that  she  should  presume  on  his  indul 
gence  ?  Nay,  he  had  not  even  so  done  that  he  should 
become  endeared  to  her  as  to  his  dogs,  —  by  harsh 
ness  and  blows.  He  had  seen  her  but  as  a  bit  of  his 
household  furnishing  until  he  got  used  to  the  sight, 
and  then  been  aware  of  her  no  more. 

He  looked  down  for  her  through  his  half-closed 
eyes ;  the  fire  had  so  sunken  that  all  was  but  shad- 


THEOPOLIND.  155 

ows.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  doubtfully ;  it 
brushed  her  hair,  and  met  the  soft,  thin  outline  of 
her  cheek.  She  was  still  disconnectedly  pleading: 
"Ulf!  Ulf!  I  do  conjure  thee  that  thou  grant  their 
lives  to  the  sons  of  Horteweiu.  And  having  given 
them  life,  how  not  give  freedom  ?  without  which  life 
is  ashes,  —  I  know  it  well  enough.  Faithful,  loving 
servants  will  they  become  of  thine,  owing  thee  more 
than  children  to  their  father ;  and  the  bright  angels 
will  set  it  in  their  golden  book.  I  too  will  bless 
thee.  Oh,  it  is  good,  good  for  him  who  hath  power 
to  hurt  to  heal  instead.  It  is  like  God.  The  soul 
remembereth  it  gladly  in  moments  of  desolation,  in 
the  weary  watches  of  sickness,  the  declining  of  age. 
So  tasteth  the  draught  of  cold  water  to  the  fever- 
smitten  man  as  the  remembrance  of  a  merciful  deed  — 
Woe 's  me  !  He  heedeth  me  not,  —  he  heedeth  me 
not ! "  she  suddenly,  softly  wailed,  and  shrank  away. 
A  whisper  of  stifled  grieving  reached  him  through 
the  dark,  as  if  from  the  ground  at  his  feet. 

A  softer  sense  overcame  him,  —  a  feeling  remotely 
kin  to  gratitude ;  such  as  he  had  proved  once  when  a 
beautiful,  unknown  bird  his  javelin  missed  came  and 
fearlessly  settled  upon  his  hand.  He  had  not  harmed 
that  bird,  but  flattered  its  rainbow  wings  and  let  it 
go,  yet  with  a  yearning  at  losing  the  bright,  trusting 
creature. 

And  if  he  should  release  the  sons  of  Hortewein  ?  ^ 

A  swift  image  of  his  sons'  indignation  leaped  in  his 

mind.     As  by  light  of  noon,  he  viewed  their  angry 

faces ;  he  heard  high,  rebellious  words.    Instant  wrath 

fired  him.     He  drew  himself  up  with  his  grimmest 


156  TIIEODOLIND. 

look,  as  if  fronting  them  all ;  clinched  his  iron  hands, 
and  bringing  his  right  violently  down  upon  his  knee, 
shouted,  "  Ha !  the  master  am  I ! " 

There  was  a  scattered  movement  of  disturbed 
sleepers. 

"  What  happeneth  ? "    drawled  a  voice  or  two. 

After  a  space  the  questioners,  had  they  not 
promptly  resigned  themselves  to  their  interrupted 
business  of  sleeping,  might  have  heard  in  the  royal 
voice  these  words  delivered :  "  I  give  thee  the  seven 
lives,  —  nay,  I  fear  me  they  are  now  but  six." 

The  sun  had  sunk.  The  coppery  flush,  still  warm 
at  one  point  of  the  horizon  above  the  far,  far  moun 
tains,  told  where  he  had  last  shown  his  glowing  face. 

The  sky  was  soft  and  vaporous.  A  wave  of  pale 
gold  slowly  rolled  back  from  the  west  to  the  zenith. 
The  motionless  bars  of  delicate  mist  drank  it  un- 
eagerly;  languidly  they  brightened.  Then,  as  all 
insensibly  faded,  there  rose  from  the  square  stone 
tower  where  it  was  the  queen's  habit  to  pace  at 
evening,  a  low  sound  of  women's  voices  singing  in 
unison :  — 

"  To  Thee  ere  daylight  dieth, 
0  Maker  of  all  things, 
We  pray,  that  in  Thy  mercy 
Thou  keep  our  souls  from  harm. 
No  evil  dream  affright  us, 
Nor  phantom  of  the  night. 
Our  Enemy  be  baffled. 
That  when  the  new  day  breaketh, 
We  praise  Thee  unpolluted." 


THEODOLIND.  157 

The  queen  stood  against  the  parapet,  her  clasped 
hands  on  the  stone,  her  face  piously  lifted. 

A  group  of  her  women  tarried  near.  Of  these 
most  had  accompanied  her  from  her  home,  —  com 
panions  in  misfortune;  a  few,  whose  voices  still 
followed  tentatively  when  the  evening  hymn  was 
chanted,  were  of  the  pagans,  who  lately  with  great 
wonder  had  heard  of  the  Cross,  and  won  over  to 
hope  good  for  their  souls,  craved  to  join  in  praising 
the  Christians'  God. 

Her  devotions  finished,  Theodolind  remained  gaz 
ing  toward  the  mountains.  Between  her  and  them 
lay  great  stretches  of  rolling  forest,  standing  since 
the  beginning  of  the  world.  The  green  of  these  was 
turning  gray  ;  thin  mists  rose  from  them. 

The  women  spoke  in  whispers  :  their  mistress 
thought  of  her  youth's  home  beyond  that  purpling 
boundary. 

Suddenly  all  eyes  were  lifted  to  the  same  point. 
Several  voices  exclaimed.  A  large  white  bird  flew 
by  on  slow,  tired  wings;  returned,  flew  farther. 

The  women  stood  quite  still,  to  encourage  this 
poor  creature  to  stop  among  them.  It  came  low 
and  seemed  about  to  settle,  when,  alarmed  at  their 
human  faces,  it  rose  again  painfully.  Then  an  arrow 
shot  up  from  below  pierced  it  unerringly  in  the  heart. 
It  dropped  fluttering,  and  the  distressed  women  gath 
ered  about  it. 

Theodolind  took  it  up  in  her  hands ;  it  lay  on  them 
warm  and  heavy.  The  tears  came  in  her  eyes  before 
she  could  think  to  harden  herself.  The  women  mur 
mured  sympathetically.  She  felt  a  warm  moisture 


158  THEODOLIND. 

slipping  through  her  fingers.  She  laid  the  bird  down 
on  the  stone  and  knelt  near  it,  smoothing  it  as  if  it 
still  could  feel. 

In  that  posture  she  saw  a  man's  head  and  shoul 
ders  appear  above  the  turret  stairway.  She  rose. 
Cynric  came  toward  her,  bow  in  hand.  The  queen 
pointed  to  the  bird  at  her  feet 

He  stooped  to  recover  his  arrow.  In  the  act  of 
withdrawing  it  from  the  wound,  he  looked  up  sud 
denly,  having  heard  her  catch  her  breath.  He  paused, 
observing  her  pained  frown ;  for  a  second  seemed  at 
a  loss,  then,  with  a  determined  jerk,  possessed  him 
self  of  his  weapon. 

"  I  did  not  think  to  offend  thee,  lady,"  he  said,  ris 
ing.  Then,  finding  himself  near  enough  to  speak 
without  being  overheard,  he  added,  under  voice :  "  I 
came  to  serve  thee.  Bid  these  withdraw  a  step. 
I  have  words  of  weight  to  speak." 

Theodolind  let  her  eyes  dwell  on  his  face  a  mo 
ment  in  silence,  and  without  making  any  motion  to 
comply.  He  smiled  faintly  under  the  continued  seri 
ous  scrutiny  of  her  eyes,  acknowledging  the  presence 
of  her  distrust. 

In  a  glance  she  had  realized  the  vanity  of  trying 
to  read  that  comely,  guarded,  politic  face ;  with  which 
the  sun  too  had  made  himself  accomplice,  lending  it 
a  smooth  bronze  mask  to  cover  all  possible  revelation 
of  the  tell-tale  blood. 

She  felt  helpless  before  it,  yet  void  of  any  fear. 
She  motioned  to  her  attendants,  who  withdrew  to 
the  farther  side  of  the  tower.  She  returned  to  the 
westward  parapet,  and  Cynric  followed  her. 


THEODOLIND.  159 

"  Speak ! "   she  said. 

He  did  not  obey  at  once,  but  watched  her  cold 
half-face  turned  as  earlier  to  the  fading  mountains, 
seeking  a  hint  from  it  how  to  proceed ;  but  her 
face  was  to  him  as  blank  of  counsel  as  his  own  was 
to  her. 

"Hast  thou  taken  account  of  the  storm-black 
looks  the  athelings  cast  on  thee  ? "  he  spoke  at 
last.  "Thou  hast  incensed  them;  thou  hast  made 
them  hate  thee.  It  is  not  wise,  believe  me,  to  brave 
such  cruel  men." 

"  I  saw  their  black  looks.  But  they  were  never 
friends  of  mine,  though  I  have  never  wished  them 
evil,  nor  shall.  So  I  have  lost  no  friend  ;  and  seven 
I  have  gained,  —  nay,  six.  Alas  !  that  cruel  wound 
in  his  shoulder  fordid  the  other !  Even  as  worldly 
prudence  would  have  me  count,  I  have  been  no 
loser." 

"  Thou  countest  thy  gains.  But  thou  hast  not  thy 
seven  new  friends  for  long,  I  fear.  Not  if  I  know 
Stuf,  and  Eadel,  Thankworth,  Eotherloew,  and  our 
little  Ulf.  Not  if  I  have  learned  well  the  meaning 
of  that  stilly  smile  which  goeth  with  a  frown  in  one 
honored  family.  Hortewein's  sons  are  not  doomed 
long  to  rejoice;  not  if  I  know  my  good  blood 
hounds." 

"  Oh !  oh !  oh ! "  moaned  Theodolind,  turning  to 
him  and  gazing  piteously.  "Are  they  such  hard 
men  ?  But  Ulf  can  govern  them  :  he  is  the  strongest 
of  all ;  to  him  I  will  appeal ;  he  may  listen  to  me 
once  again." 

"Wilt  thou  set  father  and  children  against  one 


160  THEODOLIND. 

another  ?  Wilt  thou  bring  about  such,  unnatural 
strife  ?  " 

Theodolind  could  not  answer,  but  faltered: 
"Wouldst  thou  have  the  poor  souls  taken  again 
and  butchered  ? " 

"Not  so!  But  there  are  other  ways  than  that 
Gortimer's  daughter  should  abase  herself  to  the 
king." 

Something  in  those  words  made  the  queen,  who 
in  this  trouble  had  bowed  her  head,  quietly  re 
sume  her  full  stately  height,  and  look  the  minis 
ter  in  the  eyes,  all  trace  of  emotion  gone  from  her 
countenance. 

"Forgive  my  bluntness,"  pursued  Cynric;  "but 
indeed  it  hurteth  to  think  of  a  great  king's  child, 
beautiful  and  delicate  too,  kneeling  at  those  feet, 
making  petition  with  tears,  with  persuasive  hands. 
Thou  knowest  him  not,  or  thy  pride  could  not  abide 
such  humiliation.  I  feel  it  no  disloyalty  to  my  king 
to  speak  of  him  as  he  is,  —  he  gloiieth  in  himself. 
Beside,  lovest  thou  not  truth  ?  Should  not  truth  be 
spoken  ?  He  is  rough  and  hard  within  as  without,  — 
a  coarse,  cruel,  rugged  animal.  Build  no  great  thing 
upon  his  having  once  heeded  thee,  granted  thee  some 
what.  It  was  not  for  love  of  thee  or  for  mercy's 
sake,  not  from  any  softening  of  the  soul,  —  it  was  his 
whim ;  it  was  to  make  his  power  felt  over  his  wild 
lads.  He  will  not  gall  them  overmuch,  trust  that: 
he  knoweth  his  own  part  in  them  too  well.  When 
thou  pleadest  again,  there  is  a  king's  daughter  in  the 
land  may  be  spurned  with  his  foot.  Or  —  beware  lest 
he  should  fancy  thee  !  Thou  hadst  best  efface  thyself, 


THEODOLIND.  161 

cower  and  lie  low,  make  thyself  as  like  a  shadow  as 
thou  canst  in  this  house,  —  quench  thy  alluring  gold 
hair  altogether  in  thy  veil.  It  is  not  that  in  thy 
tender  beauty  which  rnaketh  thee  like  angels,  that 
before  which  a  man  of  heart  and  understanding  is 
subdued  to  reverent  adoration,  can  appeal  to  this 
giant  simpleton.  Thou  couldst  never  be  more  to  him 
than  a  hedge-rose,  to  be  brutally  breathed  a  moment. 
Forgive  me.  What  I  have  wished  to  say  is  that  thou 
canst  spare  thyself  the  abjectness  of  fawning  on  such 
a  boor.  That  which  thou  wouldst  obtain  is  to  be  had 
by  other  means,  and  easier." 

"  Thy  means  ?  "  asked  Theodolind,  in  a  quiet  voice. 

"  There  is  a  man  whom  the  king  deemeth  wise 
and  prudent,  a  man  whose  voice  hath  weight  with 
the  royal  counsel,  a  man  whose  thought  travelleth 
swiftly  and  findeth  many  expedients." 

"  Thou  speakest  of  thyself,"  said  the  queen. 

"  Yea ;  hadst  thou  desired  of  me  the  lives  of  those 
captives,  I  could  have  got  them  thee,  and  without 
the  rancor  of  the  athelings.  I  could  have  found  such 
reasons  for  clemency  that  T  should  have  been  thanked 
by  the  lion's  whelps  for  rescuing  from  them  their 
prey.  Hast  not  thou  seen  enough  to  have  faith  in 
my  influence  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  have." 

"  Prove  it.  Is  it  not  easier,  0  Theodolind,  to  say 
'  Cynric,  do  this  thing  or  that  thing,'  to  a  faithful 
friend,  upon  whom  not  one  of  thy  gentle,  wonderful 
graces  or  virtues  is  lost,  than  demean  thyself  at  the 
feet  of  an  unfeeling  block,  the  foe  of  thy  father  and 
of  all  thy  race,  by  whom  thou  art  less  prized  than  any 

11 


162  THEODOLIND. 

of  his  dogs  ?  Through  me  thou  mayst  yet  reign,  — 
secretly  for  a  time  ;  but  when  the  order  of  things 
changeth,"  he  added,  dropping  liis  voice  still  lower, 
"  opeuly,  it  may  be." 

He  paused,  and  looked  keenly  in  her  face,  to  meas 
ure  her  understanding  of  his  words,  and  their  effect. 

But  the  gathering  shadow  baffled  him.  He  could 
distinguish  still  the  faint,  thin  flash  of  the  golden 
circlet  across  her  forehead ;  her  mantle  was  vaguely 
blue  in  the  lingering  light,  and  her  white  robe  just 
gray  with  the  growing  darkness ;  but  he  could  not 
satisfy  himself  from  looking  at  her  eyes  what  they 
betokened. 

He  felt  an  uneasy  despite  that  he  must  speak 
further  without  surely  knowing. 

"  Wilt  thou  trust  me  ? "  he  ventured  ;  and  as  she 
did  not  speak  at  once,  he  went  on  more  urgently, 
risking  much  to  overtake  what  might  be  escaping  : 
"  Thou  must  have  divined  how  from  the  day  I  saw 
thee  first,  I  have  pitied  thee,  king's  daughter,  —  oh, 
more  than  ever  thou  those  tortured  captives  yester 
night  !  —  and  had  but  the  wish  to  serve  thee.  Hast 
thou  not  felt  my  eyes  following  thee  devotedly  ? 
Now  it  is  for  thee  to  speak." 

"  Cynric,"  said  the  queen,  in  a  passionless,  slow 
voice,  "  if  thou  meanest  well,  I  thank  thee  ;  or  if 
thou  but  think  that  thou  meanest  well,  still  I 
thank  thee.  It  is  only  thy  understanding,  of  which 
I  think  thou  hast  boasted  to  me  once  or  twice 
this  hour,  that  misleadeth  thee.  Thou  dost  not 
know  me  well." 

She  paused ;  then  went  on  most  simply,  — 


TIIEODOLIND.  163 

"I  have  no  pride  to  humble  when  I  kneel  at 
Ulfs  feet,  a  suppliant  for  his  pity.  If  he  spurn 
me,  no  vanity  is  hurt.  From  his  anger,  from  the 
revenge  of  his  sons,  however  bitter  it  be,  I  have 
nothing  to  fear.  Thirst  for  vengeance  there  is  none 
in  me.  And  thou  —  thou  hast  nothing  to  give  that 
were  my  gain.  Helpless  as  thou,  as  any  one  might 
deem  me,  thou  must  see  how  yet  I  am  very  strong. 
I  have  nothing,  nothing,"  she  repeated,  with  a 
vague  gesture  toward  the  great  world,  opposing  to 
all  its  possible  wealth  and  power  her  two  naked 
palms,  —  "  nothing  to  lose." 

There  was  an  absence  of  feeling  in  her  voice 
that  made  it  mournful  to  hear  in  one  so  young. 

"  And  it  is  not,  I  will  tell  thee  for  thy  further 
instruction,"  she  pursued,  "since  thou  valuest  un 
derstanding  of  the  human  heart,  that  griefs  have 
frozen  mine.  It  was  still  alive  when  that  tired 
bird  who  sought  a  refuge  fell  shot,  —  though  the 
worst  that  it  can  suffer  it  hath  already  long  sub 
mitted  to.  But  I  have  chosen  my  part,  —  to  endure 
with  dignity  all  that  can  be  put  upon  me,  leaving 
the  issue  to  my  God ;  trusting,  since  I  cannot  un 
derstand.  There  was,  I  think,  some  treason  in  what 
thou  saidst  of  my  lord,  as  well  as  some  dishonor. 
It  is  well  thou  shouldst  learn  that  I  am  his  loyal 
wife.  The  good  of  his  soul  lieth  near  to  my  soul. 
Thou  knewest  when  thou  spokest  to  me  how  un 
defended  I  am,  how  powerless  to  avenge  an  insult 
to  my  womanly  delicacy,  had  I  any  of  such  refined 
pride  left  in  me.  The  helpless  have  an  instinct  to 
guide  them  :  that  telleth  me,  it  were  wiser  to  trust 


164  THEODOLIXD. 

Ulf,  fierce  and  cruel  as  the  lion,  than  thee,  that  art 
a  serpent." 

She  could  hear  in  the  twilight  Cynric's  breath 
coming  quick ;  but  when  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  voice 
as  measured  and  calm  as  her  own,  almost  as  if  he 
were  subtly  mocking  her  manner :  — 

"  Thy  understanding  no  more  than  mine  warneth 
thee  infallibly.  I  have  uttered  no  treason,  nor  have 
I  meant  any  offence.  I  have  but  tendered  service  to 
my  queen.  There  are  rumors  —  whispers  as  yet  — 
that  a  time  approacheth  when  a  friend  might  stand 
thee  in  good  stead.  Thy  father  is  not  all  content 
with  peace ;  keeping  faith  wearieth  him.  He  hath 
grown  used  to  missing  thy  face  from  his  world ;  he 
chafeth,  he  bestirreth  himself.  Well,  naught  may 
come  of  it ;  but  if  it  have  results,  thou  wilt  mayhap 
remember  that  I  offered  thee  service.  And  I,  it  is 
possible,  may  have  then  forgotten  that  when  I  did 
so  thou  saidst  unto  me,  '  Serpent ! '  Yet  I  call  thee 
a  rash  lady,"  he  added  in  a  more  natural  voice,  swift 
and  bitter,  "  an  ignorant,  unused  girl,  to  say  that  thou 
hast  endured  already  the  worst  — " 

What  more  he  may  Lave  spoken  was  drowned  in 
the  blare  of  horns,  the  approaching  tramp  of  hoofs  up 
the  rocky  road,  a  command  given  in  a  shout  by  Ulf. 

Theodolind  and  Cynric  leaned  over  to  see  far  below 
the  confused  movement  of  the  earls  returning. 

Cyuric  took  his  leave. 

From  the  end  of  the  hall,  where  she  sat  spinning 
among  the  women,  the  queen  looked  at  the  faces  of 
Ulf's  sons  to  see  if  these  might  tell  her  anything  of 


THEODOLIND.  165 

the  Horteweinings'  fate.  She  argued  well  from  their 
frank  good-humor  toward  their  father,  and  from  their 
total  carelessness  of  herself. 

They  had  had  good  sport.  In  a  corner  as  they 
entered  they  had  flung  down  the  wolves  slain  that 
day.  The  light  was  reflected  dimly  here  and  there 
on  a  glassy  eye,  a  row  of  sharp  teeth,  and  caught 
darkly  by  the  narrow  stream  that  crept  from  under 
the  heavy  heap. 

Stuf  alone  of  the  men  made  not  merry,  who  had 
not  been  forth  with  the  others.  He  had  placed 
himself  near  the  blazing  hearth,  and  stooped  moping, 
with  his  head  bent  and  his  hair  falling  over  his  face, 
shivering  in  spite  of  the  great  heat.  His  wounds 
were  afflicting  him.  He  had  repulsed  Theodolind 
when  she  craved  to  ease  him. 

Through  the  noise  of  rough  table-talk,  she  heard 
him  suddenly  cry  out  and  curse  when  he  attempted 
to  shift  his  position.  She  moved  softly  toward  him, 
murmuring,  "  Let  me  help  thee,"  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his  feverish  arm. 

He  started  angrily  to  draw  it  back ;  but  the  hand 
felt  so  gratefully  soft  and  cool,  he  eyed  her  suspi 
ciously,  then  suddenly  without  a  word  bared  his  hurt 
side  to  her,  and  surrendered  his  aching  limb.  Deftly 
she  ministered  to  him. 

She  had  but  returned  to  her  place  and  resumed 
her  distaff,  thinking  a  good  thought  of  big-bodied, 
ungracious  Stuf,  when  a  great  commotion,  and 
UK's  furious  voice  rising  over  all,  stopped  her 
breathing.  He  was  rating  the  keeper  of  his  dogs  for 
the  death  of  a  boar-hound  he  loved. 


166  THEODOLIND. 

"  Ha !  I  tell  thee  that  the  blame  is  thine ! "  he 
roared,  rising  and  upsetting  his  settle,  while  he 
brought  down  his  list  so  that  the  ale  splashed  from 
the  flagons.  "  A  dog  dieth  not  of  so  little.  He  had 
but  a  small  hurt  from  a  young  boar's  tusk.  Thou  hast 
given  him  no  water,  or  thou  hast  neglected  to  give 
him  meat,  or  thou  hast  given  him  overmuch  meat. 
Ha !  my  brave  brindled  hound !  used  no  better  than 
a  churl's  mongrel  cur !  Ha !  but  thou  shalt  answer 
for  it.  I  valued  him  more  than  I  do  thee,  and  I  will 
prove  him  that  on  thy  body.  Thou  shalt  hang,  — 
nay,  thou  shalt  be  flayed ! " 

Theodolind  had  risen,  trembling.  Each  burst  of 
his  voice  was  like  a  blow.  She  had  never  seen  the 
king  like  that,  —  never  so  unreasonable,  so  unjust. 
He  was  not  cruel  habitually  to  his  own  men. 

Even  the  earls  seemed  to  feel  a  novelty  in  this : 
consternation  was  painted  on  their  faces ;  they  were 
gloomily  silent.  Eadel  frowned  in  disapproval  at 
his  father,  moving  uneasily  as  if  making  ready  to 
oppose  him. 

The  keeper,  an  old  man,  was  ashen  with  fear,  and 
trembled  visibly. 

Another  storm  of  words  broke  from  Ulf.  It  seemed 
almost  as  if  he  were  lashing  himself  into  this  un 
natural  fury,  or  that  he  were  gone  mad. 

Theodolind,  looking  amazed ly  from  him  to  the 
offending  old  man,  caught  Cynric's  eye.  She  could 
not  fail  to  see  that  his  glance  was  full  of  significance, 
but  she  did  not  understand. 

"Drag  him  forth!"  shouted  Ulf.  "Whip  him  in 
stantly  till  his  wrinkled  hide  drop  off  him  —  "  But 


THEODOLIND.  167 

Theodolind  had  fallen  at  his  feet  and  clasped  his 
knees  with  her  arms,  imploring,  and  not  to  be 
thrown  off. 

A  vague  hope  made  eager  the  old  man's  terrified 
face.  The  king  had  squared  himself  in  his  chair, 
with  the  pale  queen  at  his  feet. 

One  day,  not  long  after  the  keeper-of-hounds'  re 
turn  to  favor,  Cynric  witnessed  a  thing  such  as  he 
had  never  seen  happen  before. 

In  the  hottest  excitement  of  the  chase,  when  the 
enormous  mother-boar  brought  to  bay  had  turned 
upon  her  assailants,  and  the  dogs  rushed  against  her 
with  yells,  he  saw  Ulf  abruptly  turn  his  back  on  the 
beloved  sport,  and  plunge  into  the  forest. 

He  reasoned  rapidly,  and  followed  in  his  footsteps. 

The  king  crashed  through  the  underbrush,  with 
lifted  arms  snapping  the  interfering  boughs,  tearing 
down  the  wild  linking  vines ;  now  ducking  to  clear  a 
slanting  tree-bole ;  where  he  could  not,  overleaping  it. 

Cynric  kept  him  in  view. 

Long  the  two  travelled,  yet  made  not  much  road 
by  reason  of  the  many  obstacles. 

Ulf  came  to  the  spot  where  a  dark  stream  was 
gathered  in  a  deep  basin.  He  stopped,  measured  it 
with  his  eye,  and  sprang  to  the  farther  bank. 

Cynric,  reaching  it,  felt  himself  insufficient,  and 
was  vexed  at  thought  of  now  losing  sight  of  the  king. 

But  hazard  favored  him  :  Ulf  went  no  farther. 

The  light  there  was  peculiarly  soft  and  cool,  falling 
through  the  thinned  roof  of  leaves  that  screened  the 
stream.  The  sun  sparsely  strewed  the  bronze  mirror 


168  THEODOLIND. 

with  winking  golden  eyes.  There  was  a  good  smell 
of  wet  inoss  from  the  stones  that  edged  the  water ;  a 
soothing  gurgling  sound  from  beyond  the  point  where 
the  great  trunk  of  a  lightning-smitten  tree  had 
dammed  in  the  flood. 

Ulf  threw  back  his  head  and  sniffed  the  dead- 
leaf-scented  air.  Then  he  flung  himself  down  by 
the  stream  on  a  bed  of  leaves  centuries  deep,  with 
his  arm  over  a  gray  rock.  In  so  doing  he  saw 
Cynric. 

"  I  too  be  weary  and  heated,"  said  the  latter ;  "  I 
too  would  fain  sleep  through  the  noontide."  And 
he  stretched  himself  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
stream,  composing  his  arms  under  his  head. 

Ulf  looked  at  him  through  his  eyebrows,  and  said 
nothing.  He  rolled  over  upon  his  broad  back,  with 
his  spear  and  silver  horn  beside  him,  and  lay  looking 
upward,  in  the  trees  whose  tops  were  far,  far  removed 
from  their  gnarled  roots. 

Now  and  then  a  little  creature  ran  along  a  bough, 
leaped  to  another,  and  vanished  in  the  hushed  gloom. 
Winged  beings  glistened  for  a  moment,  sapphire  and 
ruby,  as  they  happened  to  cross  a  shaft  of  sunshine, 
then  seemed  to  have  melted  away.  Far  up  in  the 
air  a  few  twigs  caught  the  uninterrupted  sun  :  they 
flickered  a  burning  green,  and  made  everything  else 
dim  as  a  dream. 

After  long  remaining  motionless,  Ulf  with  a  short, 
thick  sigh,  as  if  impatient  of  a  burden  on  his  breast, 
moved  on  to  his  side,  propped  his  head  on  his  hand, 
the  tawny  locks  flowing  through  his  fingers  over  his 
wrist,  and  watched  his  companion. 


THEODOLIND.  169 

Cynric  slept. 

Ulf  bent  over  the  water,  and  looked  musingly  at 
himself.  His  leonine  head  was  reflected  clearly  and 
darkly  on  the  glassy,  gliding  plane.  Thoughtfully 
he  smoothed  out  with  his  hand  the  stern  furrows  on 
his  brow.  He  stooped  lower  curiously  to  examine 
how  silver  began  to  streak  the  hair  on  his  temples. 

He  lay  back  again  against  the  rock;  and  as  he 
pillowed  his  head  on  his  arm,  something  in  the  hand 
that  fell  under  his  eyes  seemed  to  strike  him. 

He  held  it  up  and  looked,  opening  and  closing  it, 
making  the  sinews  stand  out.  It  was  large  and  hard 
and  rough.  A  young  tree  stood  in  reach.  Cynric 
heard  a  ripping  sound,  lifted  his  head,  and  saw  how 
Ulf  without  moving  from  his  reclining  posture  up 
rooted  the  sapling. 

"  Such  strength  is  good  ! "  he  commented,  nodding, 
with  his  courtier  smile. 

Ulf  looked  at  him  again  through  his  eyebrows 
and  said  nothing,  but  glanced  sheepishly  at  his  big 
shapely  hand  and  down  his  mighty  bulk. 

After  another  space  of  staring  up  into  the  trees,  he 
spoke,  as  if  to  himself,  with  the  frown  he  wore  when 
pondering  some  difficult  question  :  "  Wherefore  good  ? 
What  can  it  do  ?  Yea,  I  know :  it  can  seize,  and 
hold  fast,  —  crush,"  he  proceeded,  with  a  sort  of  ex 
asperation,  "  hurt,  slay,  —  what  more  ?  What  can  it 
gain  for  me  but  to  make  me  dreaded  ?  How  would 
it  avail  me,  I  pray  thee,  with  that  painted  thing  ? " 
He  pointed  at  a  flashing,  blue-mailed  creature  that 
hung  poised  in  a  sunbeam.  "  I  can  catch  it  and  hold 
it  struggling,  and  end  its  pretty  life  'twixt  thumb  and 


170  THEODOLIND. 

finger ;  that  is  all.  I  could  by  no  means  woo  it  to 
settle  on  my  hand  of  itself,  and  let  me  have  joy  of 
its  dainty  form." 

He  watched  the  ethereal  insect  with  an  expression 
at  once  of  pleasure  and  displeasure,  until  it  had 
darted  away.  Then  he  remained  gazing  where  it 
had  been  with  eyes  that  looked  strangely  in  his  con 
queror's  head,  —  eyes  undangerous,  almost  wistful, 
full  of  quiet  sylvan  reflections. 

"  Just  the  body,  —  it  giveth  me  just  the  body  ! " 
he  slowly,  dreamily  grumbled.  "  That  I  can  im 
prison,  compel,  make  cringe.  I  can  teach  it  every 
pang,  make  it  fear  and  loathe  me.  But  while  I  have 
my  will  easily  of  the  frail,  helpless  clay,  that  which 
smileth,  that  which  answereth  back,  which  dwelleth 
deep  in  the  beaming  eye,  shall  set  me  at  naught. 
That  goeth  whither  it  listeth,  that  swingeth  itself  up 
beyond  my  reach,  and  mocketh  at  me  from  among 
the  icy  stars.  Over  that  I  have  no  power,  —  not 
though  I  could  uproot  all  these." 

He  moved  uneasily,  as  if  a  thorn  were  rankling  in 
his  flesh ;  his  head  sank  between  his  shoulders,  his 
face  clouded  over. 

Cynric  watched  him  in  mingled  contempt  and  re 
spect,  much  as  if  he  were  looking  on  a  sick  lion. 

"  Scorn  not  thy  strength,"  he  said  finally  ;  "  it  hath 
availed  thee  much  with  men." 

"  Who  spoke  of  women  ? "  growled  the  king,  angrily 
looking  up. 

"Nay,  none.  I  but  thought  in  reference  to  thy 
strength  of  one  to  whom  thou  hast  of  late  conceded 
many  things  when  she  sued  for  them.  Remember 


THEODOLIND.  171 

the  Horteweinings.  Without  thy  power  to  hurt, 
couldst  thou  have  made  good  thy  right  to  spare  ? " 

"  Gifts  had  I  too  to  give,  —  good  acres  and  gold," 
muttered  Ulf;  and  to  Cynric  was  explained  the 
docility  of  the  athelings  on  a  remembered  occasion. 
"  Gold,  —  land,"  pursued  the  king,  his  brow  darken 
ing  at  a  memory.  "And  what  have  they  bought 
me  ?  What  but  —  "  He  checked  himself,  becoming 
mindful  of  Cynric's  curious  attention,  and  finished 
his  musings  along  that  line  within  his  head. 

''But  that  is  at  an  end,"  he  exclaimed  at  last, 
starting  up  with  the  lavish  display  of  strength  of  one 
ashamed  of  a  weakness ;  and  he  waved  his  arms  as 
a  man  fighting  with  a  swarm  of  goading  insects.  "  I 
have  enough  of  being  wept  over  with  an  end  in  view. 
I  am  by  nature,  thou  knowest,  not  soft  of  heart,  and 
this  thing  hath  ceased  to  be  good  sport.  Nay,  I 
grant  nothing  more  for  all  the  tears  that  be  !  " 

"  Thy  resolution,  I  think,  will  be  shortly  sorely 
tested,"  said  Cynric. 

Ulf  looked  him  fixedly  between  the  eyes. 

"  It  was  to  tell  thee  somewhat  I  followed  thee 
here.  Be  not  angry  if  it  like  thee  not,  remembering 
that  I  speak  but  as  duty  to  my  king  would  have  me. 
There  were  men  taken  yesterday  — 

"  I  know  what  thou  wouldst  tell  me.  They  be 
Gortimer's  men,  —  spies.  They  perish.  The  ancient 
wolf  hath  grown  him  new  fangs,  and  whetteth  them. 
Yet  he  will  not  dare  much,  I  trow,  while  his  child 
lieth  under  my  thumb." 

"  Nay,  thou  sayest  wisely  as  ever.  But  seemeth  it 
to  thee  impossible  that  these  men,  whereof  one  —  I 


172  THEODOLIND. 

have  it  from  good  source,  the  maid  Ursula  told  me 
privily,  who  recognized  his  face,  having  known  him 
of  old  —  canst  thou  doubt  that  these,  one  among 
whom  was  less  than  a  year  gone  the  lover  of  Theo- 
dolind  and  her  promised  lord,  were  bringing  her  a 
warning  and  help  to  flee  ? " 
"  Ha  ! "  roared  the  king. 

"  Then  spoke  the  hero,  the  leader  of  men  :  Narrow  is 
this  land  for  my  desires ;  cramped  is  my  big  spirit.  Every 
weary  blade  of  green  my  foot  hath  trod  ;  every  tree  I 
once  have  seen.  Seek  we  broader  acres,  0  my  fellows, 
where  the  breast  can  freely  swell,  and  the  eye  rove  like 
an  eagle.  Then  loosed  they  the  great  sea-steeds,  gave 
them  bridle.  The  hoarse  gray  sea  writhed  in  his  wrath. 
The  sea-steeds,  the  strong-winded,  bravely  galloped, 
straining  up  the  slippery,  crumbling  glass-hills,  the  tu 
multuous  water-mountains.  Saw  the  hero  in  the  pale- 
red  daybreak  white  shores  gleaming,  white  as  milk-curd. 
Cried  the  leader  to  his  warriors :  Behold  the  land  I 
promised  to  my  faithful !  But  there  be  work  for  keen- 
edged  axes  ere  we  shall  wash  our  hands  in  fair  well-water. 
Take  each  man  his  good  crest-crasher ;  the  wolves  shall 
have  hot  meat." 

The  singer  stopped  to  moisten  his  throat  and 
"breathe  himself,  before  rehearsing  the  battle  that 
ensued,  when  Sagfrith,  Ulfs  renowned  father,  set 
foot  on  land. 

The  earls  listened  with  never  completely  dulled 
emotion  to  the  oft-heard  tale  of  carnage,  unable  to 
repress  a  battle-cry  now  and  then  when  the  onset 
of  armed  men  was  described.  Some  of  the  older 
men  nodded  excitedly,  frequently  saying  to  the 


THEODOLIND.  173 

younger,  "  It  was  so,  I  can  swear,  for  I  myself  was 
there  ! " 

When  he  had  finished,  the  singer  gave  the  harp 
into  the  hands  of  his  neighbor. 

Cynric  felt  the  strings  reflectively  a  moment  with 
out  rousing  them  to  sound,  while  the  earls  composed 
themselves  to  hear.  His  abstracted,  roving  eye  lighted 
a  moment,  casually,  on  the  queen. 

She  sat  spinning.  None  of  the  women  gathered 
about  her  spun  so  untiringly  as  she,  who  never 
stopped,  as  did  the  others,  to  bestow  a  moment's 
attention  on  any  of  the  guests.  Her  eyes  were  low 
ered,  her  face  a  blank. 

He  glanced  swiftly  at  the  king.  Ulf  leaned  back, 
gazing  up  among  the  rafters ;  so  he  had  been  sitting 
since  the  harp  resounded,  forgetting  to  drink 

Cynric  smote  the  strings  softly,  and  thereupon, 
sang  in  the  manner  of  another  people  than  these,  to 
whom  blows  were  at  once  work  and  pastime.  He 
had  learned  in  a  sunnier  land  to  utter  more  soothing 
songs.  His  voice  was  high  and  ripe,  —  truly  a  pleas 
ant  gift  of  Nature,  — •  evoking  a  golden  atmosphere 
about  the  sensitive  listener's  thought,  pressing  insist 
ently  on  the  deep  source  of  tears. 

"  The  wind  is  now  sweet  and  warm  as  breath  of  kine  ; 
the  smell  of  the  early  rose  is  blown  abroad  from  the 
garden.  Now,  since  the  leaves  are  grown  thick  to  shelter 
the  nests  from  rain,  pair  the  feathered  hosts  of  the  wood. 
Upon  the  hills  there  is  no  vestige  left  of  that  white 
shield  the  crocus  bold  had  to  pierce  with  his  blue  spear. 
The  wayfarer,  whom  weariness  overtakes,  may  lie  upon  a 
bed  of  primroses,  diversified  with  little  violets. 


174  THEODOLIND. 

"  It  is  the  season  when  the  blooming  youth  cannot 
withhold  his  feet,  but  they  will  lead  him  where  maidens 
are  assembled  bleaching  linen,  or  playing  lightly  with 
the  bounding  ball.  He  spieth  shyly  through  the  blos 
soming  branches ;  then  walketh  lonely,  sighing  at  a 
vision. 

"  Now  in  his  frozen  bosom  who  hath  lost  a  tender 
mate,  his  sorrow  waketh  newly,  as  putteth  forth  the 
hoary  bark  new  leaves. 

"Now  they  who  may  not  love  but  it  is  disaster,  in 
treacherous  dreams  begotten  of  the  spring,  do  feed  their 
eyes  on  a  forbidden  face,  and  moan  in  slumber,  waking  to 
find  the  pillow  damp  with  tears." 

Theodolind's  hands,  like  those  of  the  other  women, 
had  become  listless  at  their  spinning ;  she  fingered 
the  implements  mechanically,  looking  fixedly  over 
and  beyond  Cynric's  head,  —  seeing  no  one  might 
know  what  vision  there,  —  unconscious  of  herself  as 
of  her  lord,  who  was  watching  her  unfairly  through 
fingers  that  made  a  feint  to  shield  his  eyes  from  the 
light. 

So  absorbed  she  was,  she  did  not  start  for  a  mo 
ment,  even  slightly,  when  a  face  filled  the  vacant 
space  at  which  she  was  staring,  —  no  more  than  as 
if  that  face  had  been  a  part  of  her  dream. 

The  door  at  the  farther  end  of  the  hall  had  opened 
quietly  while  Cynric  still  sang,  and  a  man  had  en 
tered  preceded  and  followed  by  a  handful  of  Ulfs 
inen-of-arrns  bearing  pikes.  The  lights  bent  and 
flared  a  moment  in  the  gust,  then  burned  brighter, 
showing  a  stranger's  face. 

He  was  in  the  first  flower  of  manhood,  of  com- 


THEODOLIND.  175 

mandiug  height  and  princely  carriage,  yet  light  and 
slender  of  shape.  His  lip  and  cheek  were  clothed  as 
with  golden  light.  His  features,  of  a  type  that  dis 
tinguished  him  from  the  rugged  occupants  of  the 
hall,  were  informed  with  a  noble  and  proud  beauty ; 
his  steadfast  eyes  expressed  at  the  same  time  scorn 
and  patience.  The  dark-red,  close-fitting  tunic  that 
lie  wore  was  delicately  stitched  with  small  gold 
lilies ;  his  gold-studded  belt  supported  an  empty 
dirk-sheath. 

He  moved  up  the  hall  between  his  guards  with 
measured  tread,  casting  his  eye  calmly  over  the 
company. 

Cynric  had  not  ceased  singing.  As  he  passed  be 
hind  him,  the  prisoner  caught  sight  of  a  pale  face 
softly  staring  at  him  from  the  side  where  the  women 
sat,  with  the  sad,  tender  eye  he  knew.  His  foot 
faltered ;  he  paused,  suddenly  gone  pale  himself. 

On  the  queen's  awakening  face  then  grew  a  look 
that  those  who  beheld  it  were  haunted  by  through 
weary  years. 

The  young  man's  hesitation  lasted  only  for  the 
space  of  a  lightning-flash.  He  averted  his  face, 
frozen  and  still,  and  passed  on. 

Theodolind's  eyes  followed  him,  fascinated,  horror- 
struck. 

But  when  she  saw  him  bent  toward  the  door  that 
led  to  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  castle,  she  could 
no  more.  She  staggered  to  her  feet,  and  would  have 
shrieked  his  name,  but  only  a  broken  gasp  reached 
the  air,  —  "  Arthur  ! "  For  even  as  the  door  fell  heav 
ily  to,  Ulf  had  leaped  to  his  wife's  side.  She  had  a 


176  THEODOLIND. 

brief,  terrible  vision  of  a  face  breathing  hard  into  her 
face;  blazing,  pitiless  eyes  pressing,  searching  into 
her  own ;  a  confused  thought  that  Stuf  and  Cynric, 
kind  souls,  would  not  wish  to  see  her  ill-used  ;  then 
a  moment  of  insufferable  anguish,  and  black  night 
overcame  her. 

And  for  this  man  she  would  not  once  lift  her  voice 
in  intercession  ? 

That  question  Cynric  put  to  himself  a  hundred 
times  during  the  space  of  three  days  allowed  Arthur 
to  reflect  if  he  would  confess  Gortiiner's  connivance 
in  his  coming. 

As  the  hours  of  Arthur's  life  grew  fewer,  Cynric 
asked  it  with  a  sort  of  impatience,  almost  indigna 
tion,  and  felt  an  inexplicable  discomfort  increasing 
about  his  centre  of  consciousness.  Was  it  that  he 
felt  defrauded  ? 

The  queen,  the  distributer  of  bread,  moved  about 
her  duties  as  before.  She  made  no  attempt  at  speech 
with  the  king.  As  he  never  lost  trace  of  the  one  or 
the  other,  Cynric  was  assured  of  that. 

For  this  man  alone,  who  had  loved  her,  would  she 
not  intercede,  —  she  whose  voice  had  sometimes  won 
grace  for  a  common  wretch  condemned  to  die  ?  What 
was  the  secret  of  her  silence  ?  He  could  not  hold 
himself  from  once  more  searching  her  expressionless 
face  to  see  if  he  might  not  discover.  In  that  moment 
it  was  revealed  to  him.  Had  he,  indeed,  supposed 
that  she  was  making  no  appeal  ?  The  more  doltish 
his  judgment !  It  was  with  those  speaking  eyes  she 
did  her  pleading. 


THEODOLIND.  177 

Then  he  watched  her  constantly,  in  that  way  he 
had,  without  directly  looking  or  seeming  to  see. 

He  perceived  how  her  insistent  glance  dogged 
Ulfs,  imploring  ever,  more  than  if  she  had  been 
prone  before  him  with  her  forehead  on  his  feet. 

The  king  could  not  look  up  from  the  floor,  which 
in  the  mood  now  on  him  he  studied  at  length,  but  he 
met  her  eyes,  and  they  began  their  despairing  prayer, 
like  those  of  a  dumb,  drowning  creature.  If  he  did 
not  at  once  withdraw  his  own,  nor  gather  his  brows 
in  the  forbidding  folds  that  came  so  easy  to  them, 
they  stole  nearer  a  little,  encouraged ;  it  seemed  al 
most  as  if  the  parted  lips  were  about  to  speak, — 
but  they  did  not. 

The  king  lived  his  usual  life,  with  a  black  frown 
thereto  added,  and  an  unaccustomed,  ugly  suddenness 
of  temper  that  made  his  people  look  to  their  ways. 
To  his  wife  he  spoke  never  a  word.  But  it  was  per 
ceived  by  one  who  watched  him  keenly  —  Cynric 
—  that  he  now  and  then  would  turn  his  eyes  on  her 
reluctantly,  as  if  compelled  to  it.  Then  would  be  re 
newed  that  mute  argument  of  hers.  Ulfs  face  hard 
ened  :  he  would  seem  to  his  spy  trying  to  beat  back 
and  break  her  glance  on  the  steely  anger  of  his  own  ; 
then  suddenly  sometimes  he  looked  away  almost  as 
if  putting  up  a  shield,  taking  flight. 

It  was  in  the  cold  first  glimmer  of  dawn  Ulf  woke 
with  a  sick  start  from  leaden  sleep  succeeding  long 
hours  of  waking, —  woke  with  a  sense  that  the  eyes 
were  again  with  him.  They  seemed  to  pierce  through 
the  gloom,  and  find  him  there  disarmed.  His  hands 
were  weak  as  water ;  he  could  not  control  the  mo- 

12 


178  THEODOL1ND. 

tions  of  his  blood.  He  held  his  breath ;  he  remem 
bered  —  and  seemed  to  remember  not  with  the  spirit 
only,  but  with  every  fibre  of  his  thrilled  frame  —  a 
night  not  long  gone  when  he  had  dreamed  of  a  cold 
bird  dropping  against  his  breast.  If  again  —  His 
heart  beat  thick ;  the  blood  surged  fiery  in  his  eyelids. 
He  felt  strangely,  recklessly  ready  for  a  moment  to 
do  whatever  a  small  chill  hand  laid  on  his  own 
should  desire  of  him.  There  was  no  stir,  but  a  sound 
of  the  wind  rising  outside.  He  strained  his  eyes  to 
explore  the  shade ;  his  breast  ached  with  the  long- 
pent  breath.  He  saw  nothing,  yet  was  unmanned 
by  the  sense  of  a  presence.  He  did  not  move,  to  find 
if  a  hand  would  not  suddenly  touch  him,  and  a  voice 
say  in  a  whisper  his  name.  As  he  gazed  he  thought 
—  yet  was  never  sure  —  there  rose,  without  a  sound, 
from  the  floor  a  black,  formless,  misty  shadow  ;  lifted 
its  arms  on  high,  wringing  them,  and  melted  away, 
while  the  wind  gave  a  shudder.  The  king  ground  his 
teeth,  battling  to  repossess  himself,  hardening  again  his 
melting  heart,  cursing  it  and  the  night  and  dreams. 

So  the  third  day  dawned,  and  wore  to  its  close. 

The  queen  found  herself  sitting  at  her  usual  place 
in  the  hall,  in  sight  of  the  men  at  their  evening  meal, 
with  the  familiar  faces  of  her  companions  about  her, 
distaff  and  spindle  in  her  hands. 

She  spun,  but  not  so  steadily  as  once ;  her  hands 
would  drop  on  her  lap,  and  lie  palms  upward  for 
minutes,  while  she  looked  one  after  another  in  all 
the  faces  present.  No  help  in  any  of  them.  They 
were  as  uncaring  of  her  as  ever ;  they  could  laugh  in 
such  an  hour,  —  those,  too,  to  whom  she  had  sought 


THEODOLIND.  179 

to  do  some  little  good.  Then  she  remembered  that 
these  men  were  not  likely  to  be  aware  of  her  grievous 
trouble.  They  could  know  nothing  more  than  that 
one  of  her  race  lay  in  danger.  Would  she  have  suf 
fered  so  much  for  just  a  countryman  ?  Ulf  knew ; 
his  face  had  said  so  plainly  enough  in  that  terrible 
hour.  And  probably  Cynric.  Yes,  he  avoided  her 
eye.  There  was  a  distant  sort  of  consolation  at  this 
moment  —  when  her  grief  seemed  to  have  spent 
itself  and  to  lie  dazed,  so  that  she  could  think 
clearly  and  observe  almost  indifferently  —  in  the 
thought  that  they  did  not  know.  The  bitter  world 
would  have  seemed  by  so  much  bitterer  if  she  had  had 
to  believe  that  Stuf,  for  instance,  whose  face  for  an 
instant  had  looked  gratitude  and  respect  into  hers, 
could  appear  like  that —  contented,  lazy —  while  she 
was  proving  a  thousand  agonies.  If,  now,  she  were 
to  confess  to  Stuf  and  implore  his  aid,  could  he  do 
aught  in  her  cause  ?  She  considered  the  question 
calmly,  and  on  reflection  set  it  aside.  She  looked 
then  at  the  face  next  to  his,  asking  herself  the  same 
question  concerning  it,  perpending  with  a  clearness 
of  judgment  that  had  come  to  her  only  since  the 
nerves  of  pain  were  so  deadened. 

At  last  she  looked  at  Cynric.  This  man  could 
perhaps  be  of  use ;  but  she  had  once  called  him  ser 
pent,  and  he  had  promised  to  remember.  Oh,  if  it 
were  possible  to  efface  the  impression  of  that  cruel, 
impatient  word  !  She  had  thought  often  since,  in 
the  stilly  hour  when  she  arraigned  her  conscience, 
how  she  had  no  right  to  judge  him  at  any  time ;  he 
had  acted  according  to  other  lights  than  hers,  and 


180  THEODOLIND. 

she  might  by  a  gentle  word  have  turned  away  hate 
that  injured  his  soul  But  she  had  not  found  the 
humility  to  express  her  regret ;  she  had  been  proud, 
obstinate,  and  much  to  blame.  And  now  —  oh,  if 
he  might  but  be  generous  to  her  in  her  extreme 
need!  The  power  to  suffer  that  three  days  of  an 
guish  seemed  to  have  utterly  killed,  regained  a  flut 
tering  existence  from  this  spark  of  hope. 

Cynric  looked  over  at  her,  answering  her  mute 
summons.  She  could  not  know  what  he  saw  to 
shake  him  so. 

Cynric  looked  up,  and  was  smitten  by  a  thought 
foreign  to  all  that  he  knew  of  himself.  Never  before 
had  she  referred  to  him ;  she  had  not  seemed  since 
that  evening  on  the  tower  to  know  that  he  lived. 
Now  she  turned  to  him  for  assistance;  she  trusted 
him  to  have  forgiven  her.  Her  face  was  such  that 
he  felt  no  triumph  in  her  defeat.  Is  that  a  thing  to 
persecute  ?  said  his  new  thought.  And  in  the  revul 
sion  of  feeling  wrought  in  this  cynic  by  the  first 
glance  he  had  had  from  her  that  was  not  cold  or 
simply  unseeing,  he  fell  to  wondering  tumultuously 
why  he  had  hated  and  sought  to  do  her  harm.  He 
had  feared  lest,  grown  in  credit,  she  should  expose  his 
ambitious  and  disloyal  dreams.  Yet,  so  gentle,  so 
strong  a  creature,  suffering  all  things,  living  out 
daily  that  strange  gospel  of  her  faith  that  bade 
render  good  for  evil!  How  —  how  to  undo  what 
was  done  ?  His  thought  beat  swiftly  at  every  door 
of  help.  He  blanched;  he  looked  at  her  with  an 
expression  of  unfeigned  dismay,  and  bent  his  eyes 
elsewhere,  become  cowardly. 


THEODOLIND.  181 

"  He  meaneth,"  said  Theodolind  to  herself,  falling 
from  that  last  hope  and  lapsing  again  into  dull  in 
sensibility,  "  that  he  would  help  me  if  he  dared.  But 
he  is  afraid,  —  afraid  lest  his  power  not  being  suffi 
cient,  he  should  altogether  lose  it.  God  reward  him ; 
he  is  a  prudent  man." 

Only  the  cumbrous  being  at  the  head  of  the  board 
could  help  her. 

She  considered  him  coldly,  impersonally,  as  never 
before,  and  calculated  again  the  chances  of  a  spoken 
petition  to  him,  taking  fully  into  account  his  bar 
barous  passions.  She  feared  him,  —  oh,  she  feared 
him !  Why  did  he  hate  Arthur  more  than  another 
foe?  Not  for  love  of  herself.  Yet  she  could  not 
doubt  that  rage  and  jealousy  had  burned  in  his  eye 
when  he  stopped  her  from  crying  out.  Ah,  God !  it 
was  his  brutish  nature  that  took  on  easily  all  harsh, 
wild  ^  feelings.  It  was  his  tiger's  play.  It  had  been 
sport  before  to  make  her  beg  for  men's  lives ;  now  it 
was  but  crueller  sport  to  see  how  he  could  frighten  a 
creature  who  had  never  done  him  wrong,  so  that  for 
the  man  whose  life  was  dearest  she  dare  not  pray. 
And  she  had  hoped  good  for  this  monster's  soul. 
She  had  thought  to  redeem  him,  forgetting  to  hate 
him  as  was  proper  for  her  father's  sake,  seeing  in 
him  only  a  human  soul  that  must  not  be  let  to  so 
burden  itself  with  crimes  that  it  could  never  see 
God.  She  had  been  true  to  him  from  the  hour  of 
entering  under  his  roof,  having  renounced  herself, 
closed  the  past  in  a  secret  chamber  of  her  heart  not 
to  be  gazed  on  wilfully  again,  —  only  in  treacherous 
dreams  sometimes  revisited. 


182  THEODOLIND. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  asked  so  little  of 
life  since  the  day  she  came  to  these  halls.  She  had 
thought  that  she  asked  nothing  for  herself  whatever 
but  patience  and  the  power  still  to  do  a  little  good 
in  this  disastrous  earthly  prison-house.  But,  then, 
she  had  not  contemplated  this  chance.  She  had 
thought  nevermore  until  the  eternal  day  had 
dawned  for  them  both  to  look  upon  the  face  that 
had  once  so  sweetly  glowed  through  all  her  medita 
tions.  She  had  believed  that  the  worst  was  endured 
when  she  took  leave  of  it.  And  he  should  find  the 
eternal  day  to-morrow.  But  before  that,  the  pain  of 
death  to  be  passed  in  the  full  vigor  of  healthy  man 
hood, —  Christ!  the  human  heart  is  not  framed  to 
endure  the  thought  of  painful  death  to  those  it 
loves ;  and  again  her  heart  began  its  agonized 
struggles  against  it. 

Oh,  that  Ulf !  that  Ulf!  She  had  an  impulse  to 
cast  herself  before  him,  and  vent  her  trepidation  in 
headlong  supplications.  He  might  know  that  at  his 
feet  was  a  miserable  woman  praying  for  her  lover's 
life.  Such  an  object  deserved  pity.  Pity  !  A  vision 
of  a  mutilated  face  rose  before  her.  It  was  that  had, 
at  every  impulse  to  speak,  given  her  pause.  No  phy 
sical  dishonor  had  so  far  been  laid  upon  the  noble 
body  of  Arthur.  But  such  a  face  she  had  seen  on  an 
enemy  taken  captive  by  Ulf,  also  a  person  unable  to 
resist.  There  was  no  pity  anywhere,  on  earth  or  in 
heaven,  she  thought  irresponsibly,  her  soul  smitten 
with  utter  blindness.  Then  the  charitable  vesture 
that,  in  a  holy  thirst  to  find  each  God-made  thing  a 
little  worthy  of  love  or  pity,  she  had  been  long  weav- 


THEODOLIND.  183 

ing  about  all  the  persons  and  objects  in  that  hall, 
dropped  into  tatters.  She  saw  them  in  a  lurid  light 
that  showed  them  to  her  in  every  detail  sordid,  mon 
strous,  loathsome.  How  had  she,  nurtured  in  a  noble 
palace,  among  men  whose  words  and  deeds  were  those 
of  dignity,  been  able  to  endure  these  in  patience,  — 
these  barbarians,  lower  than  brutes !  There  flashed 
through  all  her  veins  the  mad  desire  for  power  to 
blot  them  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  And  taking 
up  her  spinning,  she  spun  diligently,  feeling  confus 
edly  that  in  a  world  where  none  had  care  or  pity, 
one  might  as  well  spin.  Nothing  mattered  much  in 
such  a  world. 

At  last,  in  the  stillness  of  midnight,  she  found  her 
self  alone  in  the  small  stone  chamber  high  in  the 
turret  where  she  came  to  pray.  In  a  hollow  of  the 
wall  stood  a  rough  stone  cross,  secretly  hewn  for  her 
there.  A  lamp  burned  dimly.  She  dropped  before 
the  symbol,  and  clasping  her  hands  about  it,  bent 
her  face  on  her  arms,  faint  and  dizzy  with  fasting 
and  lack  of  sleep,  stupid  with  grief. 

She  began  praying  wanderiugly,  mixing  her  im 
perious  demand  for  justice,  for  a  miracle,  with 
humble  pleas  for  patience,  forgiveness,  and  grace 
to  forgive,  — falling,  in  mere  exhaustion  of  spirit, 
from  her  passionate  conjurations  to  disconnected, 
helpless  telling  over  to  herself  a  golden  time, 
blessed,  before  these  crosses;  recalling  glimpses  of 
summer  woods  where  the  condemned  man  had  rid 
den  with  her,  May  in  their  hearts ;  impressions  of 
things  seen  and  felt  together:  glittering  musters 
of  knights,  —  stars  coming  out  above  them,  sitting 


184  THEODOLIND. 

side  by  side,  unreproved,  in  her  father's  house ;  the 
feel  of  his  hand,  the  way  of  his  familiar  speech ; 
then  brought  back  to  thought  of  the  horror  im 
pending,  fervently  beseeching  God  for  him  and  for 
herself. 

At  last,  as  morning  neared,  it  seemed  that  God  had 
heard :  a  strange  comfort  came  to  her,  a  sense  of  ex 
altation  that  lifted  her  beyond  the  morrow.  From 
the  shadowy  corners  faces  looked  down  on  her,  each 
set  in  its  tremulous  glory,  —  compassionate,  courage- 
giving,  tranquillizing  faces  of  many  who  had  long 
overcome  pain  ;  smells  of  Paradise,  incense  and  lilies, 
filled  all  the  cold,  dark  place,  crept  through  her  brain, 
numbing  it  to  human  fears.  She  lay  long  rapt  in 
a  vision.  Softly  her  hands  loosened,  slipped.  She 
bent  upon  herself  before  the  stone  altar,  and  lay 
motionless. 

A  maid  found  her  so.  She  stooped,  frightened, 
and  with  many  pains  roused  her.  The  newly  risen 
sun  flung  through  the  narrow  chink  of  the  window  a 
bar  of  yellow  light  across  her  robe.  She  smiled 
faintly,  dazzled,  as  she  opened  her  eyes.  Then  she 
sat  up,  gently  rubbing  her  forehead ;  and  as  she 
came  to  herself,  there  grew  again  in  her  face  the 
white  fixed  look  it  had  worn  when  she  looked  on 
the  vision. 

She  took  up  early  her  station  at  the  window  com 
manding  the  court  through  which  it  was  known  that 
the  spy  must  pass.  The  window  was  high.  She 
prayed  a  maid  push  a  stool  under  it,  and  stood  on 
the  raised  place  looking  through  the  bars,  careless 
that  her  face  should  be  seen  of  all ;  as  if  scornful  of 


THEODOLIND.  185 

appearances,  grown  so  bold  as  to  have  no  desire  fur 
ther  to  conceal  from  the  husband  the  face  of  a  wife 
whose  lover  is  about  to  die.  Yet  it  was  not  bold 
ness  :  only,  her  brain  seemed  to  have  limited  its 
functions  to  framing  a  single  thought. 

Ulf  did  not  approach  the  window;  but  from  his 
post  on  the  hearth  with  the  dogs  cast  now  and 
then  from  under  his  bent  brows  a  glance  toward 
Theodolind. 

A  feeling  of  constraint  prevailed  among  the  earls. 
All  felt  something  impending;  all  had  been  con 
scious  of  a  heaviness  in  the  air  these  last  few  days, 
and  knew  not  for  what  to  be  prepared.  A  man,  it 
was  supposed  an  emissary  of  the  queen's  father,  was 
to  die  that  morning  by  the  king's  command :  stern 
passions  must  play  about  that  issue.  They  looked 
from  the  queen's  colorless,  waiting  face  to  the  king's, 
which  wore  an  expression  not  seen  on  it  by  them 
before,  of  overwrought  attention,  repression ;  and  one 
by  one  they  went  from  the  hall,  until  few  persons 
were  left  in  it. 

Ulf  watched  the  queen  now  unswervingly: 

The  starved  outline  of  her  motionless  face  showed 
rigidly  clear  against  the  light.  It  was  a  face  that 
smote  the  beholder,  that  unavoidably  brought  up  an 
image  of  what  it  must  have  been  under  less  ill- 
starred  conditions,  —  how  singularly  sweet  to  look 
upon,  with  ever  so  little  a  smile  to  quicken  that 
ghostly  suggestion  of  a  long-disused  dimple,  with 
health  and  hope  and  natural  joys  to  flush  and  round 
out  that  untimely  aged  cheek. 

Once  and  twice  the  king  made  a  step  toward  her, 


186  THEODOLIND. 

then  stopped,  and  drew  back  to  his  place,  moving 
restlessly. 

Now  there  rose  a  murmur,  a  scuffling  in  the  court. 
It  grew.  It  told  him  that  Arthur  had  appeared.  He 
watched  the  queen  tremulously.  A  smile  distorted 
his  mouth. 

Theodolind  pressed  her  sharp  face  to  the  bars  a 
moment,  every  tense  line  giving  witness  of  the  su 
preme  reaching  out  of  the  spirit,  her  eyes  widened 
by  an  effort  that  completely  ringed  the  intent  gray 
iris  with  white.  Then,  suddenly,  while  he  with 
hands  involuntarily  outheld  was  breathlessly  expect 
ing,  he  saw  her  withdraw  with  a  start,  catching  at 
the  iron,  her  head  with  its  harvest  of  pale  hair  bent 
backward  over  her  shoulders,  the  face  a  moment  be 
fore  stonily  calm,  frowning,  convulsed.  She  hung  so 
a  breathing-while,  swaying,  and  her  grasp  loosened. 

He  had  reached  her  with  a  bound,  and  received 
the  light  body  in  his  arms. 

He  was  himself  laughing  in  a  strange,  shaken  way, 
and  speaking  with  a  tongue  almost  unintelligible, 
while  his  whole  great  body  trembled  with  the  effort 
to  control  himself  from  crushing  the  slight  form  he 
held  savagely,  insanely,  against  his  breast. 

"  Dost  not  see  ? ''  he  blundered.  "  He  goeth  free ! 
Understandest  ?  Free !  Yet  indeed  thou  shouldst 
have  asked  me,  knowing  all  I  would  do  for  thy  sake. 
Shalt  reward  me  a  little  for  this,  sweet  one,  for  never 
before  was  conquered  so  mad  a  thirst  for  man's 
blood." 

She  lay  impassive,  unresisting,  like  a  child  across 
his  arms ;  her  sweet  gold  head  meekly  pillowed  on 


THEODOLIND.  187 

his  neck  among  rough,  red  locks ;  her  hands  hanging, 
without  will ;  her  lips  open,  her  eyes  showing  a 
leaden  gleam  between  the  drooping  lashes. 

"  Speak  ! "  Ulf  said,  shaking  her  in  his  passion  no 
more  roughly  than  he  could  help,  yet  imperiously, 
"  Thank  me !  O  heart  of  my  heart,  white  bird,  snow- 
flower,  wilt  not  say  a  little  word  ?  " 

"  Fool !  "  cried  out  hard  at  his  side  Cynric,  gray  in 
the  face,  finding  it  relief  to  dare  the  worst  in  turning 
all  his  bitter  rage  toward  himself  and  the  world 
against  his  master,  "  Ass  !  Kuffian  !  Art  satisfied  ? 
Thou  hast  done  her  to  death ! " 

Ulf  deigned  no  answer,  did  not  look  round,  pushed 
him  aside,  and  again  spoke  to  Theodolind,  as  softly 
as  he  might,  ordering  her  to  answer  him.  Then 
again  he  shook  her,  violently  this  time ;  and  then 
still  more  violently. 

Afterward,  with  a  sudden  subjugation  of  spirit 
and  signal  loss  of  color  in  his  lips,  having  approached 
his  mouth  to  hers  so  that  the  faintest  breath  might 
be  felt,  he  held  his  own  breath,  and  for  a  long,  long 
moment  was  absolutely  still,  ghastly,  waiting  for  a 
sign. 

And  Cynric  was  still  as  he. 

And  presently  Cynric  echoed  the  hoarse  cry  that 
escaped  his  king,  and  shuddering  and  sickening  and 
cursing,  cast  himself  forward  to  the  body  that  Ulf 
with  an  abrupt,  mad  gesture  had  let  drop  from  his 
arms  heavily  down  on  the  ringing  stone. 

Then  was  seen  the  wily  courtier  on  his  knees,  sob 
bing  tearlessly,  and  with  an  unsteady  hand  striving 
to  compose  the  features  of  Theodolind,  to  smooth 


188  THEODOLIND. 

away  from  them  the  unbearable  look  of  reproach  and 
horror  that  death  was  fixing  there,  —  as  if  in  so  doing 
he  might  efface  his  own  remorse. 

He  stopped  short  in  his  pious  task,  unstrung, 
quivering,  making  himself  small,  at  the  blast  of  a 
voice  outside  in  the  court,  more  like  the  bellow  of  a 
wounded  bull  than  anything  human, — 

"  Seize  him  again,  seize  him !  Kill  him !  kill,  kill, 
kill !  Hurry  him  off  the  battlements,  that  he  dash 
down  from  crag  to  crag,  into  the  torrent,  —  down ! 
down  !  "• 


SERVIROL. 


SERVIROL. 

TWO  weary  gentlemen  warmed  themselves  at  the 
fire  in  the  forester's  hut,  and  in  the  intervals 
between  their  doses  contemplated  each  other. 

Each  felt  a  sleepy  interest  in  a  man  so  different 
from  himself. 

When  the  gentleman  who  lay  on  the  floor  with  his 
shoulders  raised  by  an  old  portmanteau  burst  in  sev 
eral  places,  and  his  legs  spread  wide,  was  brought 
back  to  consciousness  by  the  disagreeable  sensation 
of  heat  in  his  right  side,  or  the  sharpened  activity  of 
the  downpour  on  the  roof,  his  eyes  for  a  few  seconds 
wandered  puzzled  over  the  black  figure  in  the  chair 
opposite  and  above  him.  Ten  years  before  he  had 
known  a  face  like  that;  but  ten  years  must  work 
changes  in  a  face :  this  one  seemed  to  him  still  too 
youthful  to  belong  to  the  man  he  had  known. 

It  was  a  long,  delicately  thin  face,  the  noble  struc 
ture  of  the  bone  just  indicating  itself  under  the 
smooth-shaven,  pale-bronze  skin.  Everything  in  it 
while  it  reposed  drooped  a  little,  —  the  line  of  the 
black  eyebrows  fell  at  the  corners ;  the  aquiline  nose 
curved  over  the  almost  womanish  downward-arching 
mouth ;  the  long,  black  locks  hung  straight  and  soft 
as  willow-leaves  over  the  forehead  and  cheeks. 


192  SERVIROL. 

It  was  a  face  just  vaguely  touched  with  beauty, 
and  conveying  at  once  even  in  sleep  an  impression  of 
austerity  and  sweetness.  The  character  of  the  young 
man's  head  was  in  a  measure  carried  out  in  his  body 
leaning  back  in  the  high  wooden  elbow-chair,  with 
shapely  legs  outstretched  and  crossed,  and  high-bred 
brown  hands  hanging  out  across  the  arm-rests.  It  was 
slender  and  lightly  built,  yet  not  suggestive  of  weak 
ness  ;  rather  of  a  delicate  hardihood,  —  constitutional 
gracility,  perhaps,  overcome  by  simple  and  wholesome 
living. 

The  man  on  the  floor  let  his  eye  run  curiously  over 
the  other's  garments, —  still  in  the  fashion  of  the  last 
reign,  as  the  long  hair  and  smooth  cheek.  He  felt 
superior  amusement  at  the  coarse  black  woollen  tunic 
and  hose,  the  rough  creamy  linen  of  the  shirt  against 
which  the  hanging  head  looked  so  brown,  the  mantle 
of  primitive  cut  thrown  over  a  stool  to  dry  and 
steaming  quietly  before  the  fire. 

But  he  could  not  observe  long  enough  to  conjec 
ture  more  than  a  very  little ;  a  languor  bred  by  his 
ride,  by  the  heat  after  a  drenching,  the  long  drink 
after  drought,  as  well  as  a  beginning  of  fever  in  his 
veins,  soon  weighed  down  his  eyelids ;  and  he  slept 
with  his  head  thrown  back  over  the  sum  of  his 
worldly  possessions,  breathing  hard,  and  occasionally 
grunting  with  a  dreamy  realization  of  various 
discomforts. 

Then  perhaps  the  horses  stamping  under  the  shed 
outside,  or  the  muddy  white  hound  yapping  impa 
tiently  when  he  had  stretched  his  shaggy  legs  too  near 
to  the  blaze  and  it  scorched  him,  roused  the  man  in 


SERVIROL.  193 

the  chair  to  take  a  few  minutes'  further  survey  of 
the  stranger  at  his  feet. 

The  face  awakened  in  him  no  memory  of  any  one 
seen  before,  but  brought  to  his  mind  effigies  of  a  well- 
known  personage.  The  reflection  of  the  fire  kindled 
a  sunny  color  in  the  sleeper's  short,  curly  beard  and 
on  his  solid,  close-cropped  round  head,  smooth  as  a 
gilt  morion.  His  rather  large  face  with  the  upward- 
slanting  line  of  the  eye,  the  nose  broad  of  nostril  and 
thick  at  the  base,  the  full  underlip,  gave  one  to  think 
that  its  waking  expression  might  be  one  of  not  ill- 
natured  irony  combined  with  boldness. 

The  stranger's  clothes  —  originally  rich  and  showy 
in  the  extreme  —  were  sorely  weather-stained,  frayed 
in  many  places,  and  splashed  with  mud.  His  doublet 
and  trunks  were  of  the  finest  velvet,  at  one  time 
green,  elaborately  slashed  in  every  part  with  satin, 
once  of  a  warm  rose-color.  His  open  coat  was  edged 
with  dark  fur,  and  boasted  still  a  battered  gold  clasp. 
The  hat  that  lay  on  the  floor  beside  his  long  sword 
was  a  broad  round  thing  of  velvet  adorned  with 
feathers,  —  the  saddest-looking  feathers,  dingy  and 
wet  and  straggling. 

The  man  looked  ill.  From  the  fit  of  his  garments 
one  would  have  judged  his  powerfully  built,  soldierly 
body  to  have  lost  in  size  since  the  day  of  their  glory. 
His  face  was  pale  under  its  coat  of  sunburn ;  now  and 
then  it  twitched  in  his  sleep. 

The  man  in  the  chair,  at  last  feeling  sufficiently  re 
stored,  sat  up  and  looked  toward  the  window.  The 
rain  was  still  falling,  but  less  violently ;  such  gray 
light  as  could  reach  the  interior  of  the  hut  through 

13 


194  SERVIROL. 

the  trees  and  the  dull  little  window  was  beginning 
to  fail.  While  in  thought  he  was  going  over  the 
miles  still  dividing  him  from  home,  he  perceived  his 
neighbor's  respiration  becoming  decidedly  more  sub 
dued.  He  turned  to  him,  and  met  the  glance  of  his 
opening  eyes. 

The  prostrate  man  looked  in  silence  awhile ;  then 
half  smiled  and  said  audibly,  yet  as  if  saying 
it  to  himself,  "  Etieime  de  Servirol !  Etienne  de 
Servirol ! " 

The  black-clad  gentleman  smiled  in  response,  and 
stared  frankly  in  the  other's  face,  plainly  with  the 
endeavor  to  recognize  him. 

"  You  know  my  name,  Monsieur.  We  have 
met?" 

"  Met  ?  We  've  been  even  friends,  —  even  ene 
mies.  I  think,  indeed,  we  have  enough  of  the  same 
blood  to  be  able  to  call  ourselves  kinsmen." 

"  Now  that  you  speak,  I  seem  to  feel  that  you  are 
not  a  stranger.  Yet,  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me, 
your  name  does  not  offer  itself.  May  I  not  try  to 
make  my  stupidity  just  conceivable  to  myself  by 
supposing  that  you  have  greatly  changed  ? " 

"  It  is  likely,  very  likely.  But  you  —  you  have 
not  changed.  Until  you  awoke  I  could  almost  have 
believed  that  the  last  ten  years  had  not  been." 

"  Ten  years,"  mused  Servirol,  with  speculative  eyes 
on  his  neighbor's  face.  "  What  was  I  doing  ten 
years  ago  ? " 

Then  it  flashed  upon  him.  He  leaped  to  his  feet 
and  seized  the  other's  hand,  extorting  from  him  an  ir 
repressible  howl  and  shudder  of  pain,  which,  however, 


SERVIEOL.  195 

turned  into  a  forced  laugh  as  Servirol  precipitately 
retreating  let  him  go. 

"  Nothing,  —  or  not  much.  It  opened  again  while 
I  was  riding.  I  got  .it  long  ago.  Every  now  and 
then  it  becomes  as  good  as  new.  Never  mind." 

Servirol,  after  hesitating  over  tenders  of  help,  feel 
ing  that  his  friend  would  for  the  moment  prefer  it  so, 
refrained  from  making  any  reference  to  his  wound ; 
he  took  his  seat  again,  eying  him  with  a  sympathy 
he  could  not  conceal. 

"Then  it  has  dawned  on  you  who  I  am.  Well, 
who  am  I  ? " 

"Oh,  I  make  no  mistake  now,  Andre*.  You  are 
not  so  much  changed,  after  all.  It  was  your  beard 
and  your  hair." 

"  The  absence  of  my  hair,  you  mean." 

"As  you  will.  But  excuse  me,  my  dear  friend, 
are  you  not  suffering  ?  I  fear  you  are,"  said  Servirol, 
uneasy  with  compassion.  "  Pray  do  not  be  proud  with 
an  old  playmate.  Can  I  not  assist  you  ?  Without 
modesty,  I  am  deft  at  dressing  a  hurt." 

Andre'  waived  him  off  with  a  smile,  to  all  seeming 
perfectly  unconcerned. 

"  Let  be ;  it  does  not  matter.  I  laid  myself  down 
here  because  there  was  more  room.  I  can  sit  up 
well  enough."  And  before  Servirol  could  effectively 
oppose  himself,  Andre*,  without  a  catching  of  the 
breath,  had  got  to  his  feet,  and  stood  before  him 
in  the  attitude  of  a  gallant  gentleman  on  whom  is 
fixed  the  attention  of  many  beautiful  ladies.  He 
looked  strong  enough  then,  and  even  elegant  in  his 
faded  finery.  He  squared  his  shoulders  with  a  brave, 


196  SERVIROL. 

careless  air,  threw  back  his  head  with  a  light-hearted 
swagger,  and  unceremoniously  dropped  upon  the  seat 
across  which  the  other  man's  cloak  had  been  drying. 
He  leaned  forward  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  scanned  Servirol's  face  with  his  much-knowing 
blue  eyes. 

"  How  did  you  do  it,  man,  to  stay  so  young  ?  If 
you  had  become  a  priest,  as  I  thought  you  would 
have  long  done  —  But  you  are  evidently  no  priest. 
How  did  your  projects  come  to  fail,  may  one  hear  ? 
I  never  knew  a  man  more  bent  upon  cutting  himself 
off  from  every  chance  of  enjoyment  —  call  it  sinful 
pleasure  if  you  prefer  —  than  you  once  were.  Ah,  but 
that  was  long  ago  !  Now,  perhaps  —  perhaps  — 

"  I  am  even  married  ! "  laughed  Servirol.  "  I  will 
tell  you ;  but  first  let  me  hear  about  yourself.  What 
good  wind  brings  you  in  these  parts  ? " 

Andre*  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  spoke  like  a 
person  lip-deep  in  misfortunes,  but  who  does  not  care 
to  be  bothered  with  thinking  about  them. 

"  Here  or  there,  it  does  not  much  matter  now.  I 
can't  fight  with  an  accursed  hole  interfering  with 
my  sword-play.  Besides,  —  though  it  seems  a  detail 
without  importance  so  late  in  the  time  of  the  world, 
—  at  the  moment  I  should  be  embarrassed  to  know 
for  whom  to  be  fighting,  and  against  whom.  My 
royal  brother-at-arms  in  captivity ;  his  royal  mother, 
for  bad  reasons  of  her  own,  no  friend  to  me, — in  fact 
almost  seeming  to  view  my  person  with  antipathy,  — 
I  seem  to  see  long  leisure  stretching  out  before  me. 
I  thought  I  should  like  to  do  a  few  of  the  things  one 
is  always  wishing  he  had  time  for ;  for  one,  to  re- 


SERVIROL.  197 

visit  the  haunts  of  my  extreme  youth,  —  it  is  thought 
to  be  a  touching  performance,  and  to  afford  the  most 
arid  soul  some  degree  of  comfort,  —  to  see  again  old 
friendly  faces  —  " 

"  But  you  knew,"  interrupted  Servirol,  —  "  surely 
you  had  been  informed  —  " 

"Of  the  poverty  I  am  reduced  to  in  the  way  of 
kinsfolk  and  everything  else  that  one  has  without 
working  ?  Yes ;  still,  I  thought  I  might  meet  some 
one  who  remembered  me ;  and  you  see  I  was  not  to 
be  disappointed." 

"  Ah,  had  you  thought  of  me  ? "  inquired  Servirol, 
holding  out  his  hand  with  a  grateful  impulse. 

Andre*  wondered  why  he  showed  pleasure,  but  took 
the  hand,  replying  without  embarrassment :  "  Frankly, 
I  had  not  with  any  degree  of  precision  formulated 
the  thought  of  seeking  you  out.  Still,  I  knew  your 
whereabouts.  It  was  among  the  chances  that  we 
should  fall  in  with  each  other." 

"  You  must  come  and  make  our  roof  yours,  while 
your  wound  is  closing,"  said  Servirol,  whose  large- 
orbed,  mild-looking  eye  took  in  more  than  the  other 
thought  apparent.  Andre*  could  not  imagine  himself 
a  painful  object  behind  his  smiles  and  his  indiffer 
ence,  nor  know  how  the  rich  misery  of  his  apparel 
roused  pity  in  the  man  whose  orderly  simplicity 
quickened  mockery  in  himself.  "  I  will  not  allow 
you  to  refuse.  I  claim  the  right  to  take  posses 
sion  of  you  as  seventh  cousin,  if  old  friend  is  not 
sufficient." 

"  Oh,  I  was  not  thinking  of  a  refusal,"  replied 
Andre*,  with  cool  ease.  It  seemed  as  if  an  unex- 


198  SERVIROL. 

pected  prospect  of  peace  made  all  his  muscles  relax ; 
a  warmth  passed  through  his  pale  face,  and  he  looked 
simpler,  better-uatured  than  before.  "It  is  kind  of 
you,  though,"  he  owned  aloud,  in  spite  of  himself; 
"  for  I  am  an  incumbrance  now.  I  am  scarcely 
amusing.  I  am  a  trifle  broken  in  health,  I  confess ; 
I  need  not  say,  in  fortune.  But  Fortune  is  a  lady, 
my  dear  sir,"  he  added  in  brighter  tones.  "If  I 
show  a  sufficient  contempt  for  her,  she  will  come 
back,  if  only  to  see  what  manner  of  man  it  is  who 
could,  without  one  sign  of  agitation,  resign  her  most 
esteemed  favors.  She  is  a  woman, —  yes;  and  so  — 
bound  to  change ! 

'Souvent  femme  varie, 
Bien  fol  qui  s'y  fie,' " 

he  lightly  sang. 

"  But,  ah,  I  believe  you  told  me  you  were  married  ? " 
he  said,  cutting  short  the  song,  as  he  saw  in  Servirol's 
face  no  true  appreciation  of  the  sentiment  it  ex 
pressed.  "You  look  appropriately  prosperous  and 
well  nourished.  Have  you  been  married  long  ? " 

"  Not  long,  no." 

"  Do  you  know,  frankly,  I  cannot  become  used  to 
the  idea  ?  In  the  old  days  you  were  so  —  excuse  me 
for  the  expression  —  thin-blooded.  You  lived  with 
your  head  in  the  clouds;  you  had  no  eyes  but  for 
holy  books.  I  thought  you  despised  the  fair  ones." 

"  Oh,  no ;  never  that !  God  forbid  I  should  have 
been  such  a  poor  creature !  I  only  did  not  know," 
said  Servirol,  warmly.  "  But  if  I  had  been  an  unbe 
liever,  my  wife  is  fit  to  convert  the  most  obdurate." 


SERVIROL.  199 

"  Beautiful  ? " 

"  Oh,  beautiful  and  good,  —  most  perfectly  sweet 
and  good !  But  beautiful,  as  you  asked  it  first,  must 
have  seemed  to  you  first  in  importance.  And  so  it 
is :  because  perfection  of  beauty  in  the  face  cannot 
but  be  an  expression,  an  emblem,  of  the  heart's 
beauty.  You  will  be  impressed,  I  cannot  doubt, 
with  the  loveliness  that  breathes  in  iny  dear  lady's 
every  line,  every  gesture,  every  glance." 

It  came  back  to  Andre*,  as  a  forgotten  tune  is 
revived  when  one  bar  of  it  is  heard  again,  that  also 
in  the  old  times  this  was  one  of  Servirol's  traits,  — 
to  open  his  heart  freely  to  the  first-comer,  endowing 
Lira  with  every  gift  of  the  good  listener,  —  charity, 
understanding,  discretion.  No  wonder  the  man  had 
kept  young,  with  that  trusting  spirit !  Andre"  could 
not  help  an  amused  contempt  at  him.  At  the  same 
time  he  wondered  what  the  woman  could  be  like  whom 
a  Servirol  should  so  praise.  He,  Andre",  had  seen  the 
great  and  shining  beauties  of  the  day;  he  might 
boast  of  knowing  what  beauty  was.  The  picture  he 
made  to  himself  of  his  friend's  lady  bore  no  relation 
to  those  much-besung  ones  of  the  court  he  loved; 
his  imagination  sketched  him  something  simple,  raw, 
ordinary,  beneath  his  own  educated  attention. 

"  Fitly  she  is  called  Aurore ;  for  she  seems  made 
of  like  elements  with  the  dawn,  —  pearl  and  rose- 
color,  and  dew,  and  soft  light,  and  pure  gold,"  said 
Servirol,  unconsciously  using  caressing  intonations 
as  he  spoke  of  his  lady.  "  I  thank  God  that  I  found 
her !  Else  I  should  have  died  ignorant  of  this  world's 
best  happiness." 


200  SEEVIROL. 

"  You  would  have,  perhaps,  maiTied  some  other," 
remarked  Andre*. 

Servirol  blushed  dark.     "  I  think  not."     He  then 
added  with  simple  sincerity :  "  At  least  I  hope  not. 
Yet  I  will  not  conceal  from  you  that  already  before 
I  had  the  blessedness  to  see  her,  the  thought  of  be 
coming  a  priest  had  lost  its  first  heavenly  enchant 
ment.     When  we  were  together  —  can  it  be  that  ten 
years  have  passed  since  those  days?  —  my  brother 
lived,  and  it  was  my  father's  desire  that  I  should  en 
ter  the  Church.    But  when  his  eldest  son  died,  —  my 
brother  is  dead,  yes,  —  there  ceased  in  his  mind  to 
be  a  reason  for  my  forswearing  the  world.     Then  he 
wished  me  rather  to  fill  my  brother's  place.     I  did 
my  best  for  a  time.     But  when  my  father,  too,  had 
gone,  —  yes,  he  too !  —  came  over  me  the  old  thirst  for 
quiet,  and  days  sweetly  ordered  between  serene  stud 
ies  and  contemplation.     I  went  back  to  the  monas 
tery,  to  the  man  who  has  ever  been  my  best  friend, 
—  Father  Euphrasius,  —  decided  when  the  days  of 
my  novitiate  should  be  accomplished  to  transfer  all 
my  worldly  responsibilities  to  the  Servirol  nearest  of 
kin,  —  that 's  Didier.     Several  months  went  by  in 
preparation.     I  had  hours  of  feeling  myself  ripening 
toward  the  happy  end,   becoming  sanctified   in  an 
absence  of  all  earthly  desires.    But  again  came  hours 
when  that  very  complacency  in  my  easy  fate  filled 
me  with  doubt.    I  feared  that  I  must  be  a  coward  to 
find  myself  so  willingly  out  of  the  battle  while  yet 
strong  and  unhurt.     And  that  thought  never  struck 
me  as  having  the  character  of  a  temptation,  because 
the  thought  of  a  world  of  men  and  action  was  hard 


SERVIROL.  201 

to  me ;  while  the  thought  of  monkhood,  of  renunci 
ation,  of  dedication,  was  smooth,  gratifying,  and  in 
so  far  partook  of  the  signs  of  temptation. 

"  Then  came  springtime  over  the  earth ;  and  I  do 
not  know  how  to  describe  what  came  to  be  all 
through  my  being.  It  was  akin,  it  seems  to  me,  to 
the  spirit  in  the  trees  when  after  the  bleak  bareness 
of  winter  they  begin  to  break  into  leaves  and  blos 
soms.  I  knew  it  for  a  spirit  not  of  evil,  —  for  I  felt 
friends  with  God,  and  could  not  believe  that  he  would 
mislead  me,  make  traps  for  me  out  of  the  natural 
outreachings  of  my  heart.  Yet  I  did  not  clearly  per 
ceive  what  was  happening  in  my  soul.  I  was  rest 
less  without  understanding  whither  I  wished  to  go, 
unsatisfied  without  knowing  what  I  wanted. 

"  One  night,  unable  to  sleep,  I  went  into  the  chapel 
to  read  by  the  little  lamp  that  burns  incessantly  be 
fore  the  image  of  Mary.  I  think  I  was  in  the  mood 
wherein  men  see  visions ;  alive  in  every  fibre,  with 
every  sense  intensified  almost  to  pain.  I  unfolded 
the  scroll  and  tried  to  gather  my  broadly  flying 
thoughts  and  fix  them  upon  the  text.  Then  in  the 
mysterious  light  became  clear  to  my  wonderfully 
sharpened  sight  letters  that  I  had  never  seen  before  : 
between  the  severe  black  lines  flame-tinted  shadowy 
letters,  letters  that  had  been  blotted  out  so  that  the 
parchment  could  be  used  again  to  a  different  purpose. 
How  had  I  never  seen  them  before  ?  Now,  though 
the  light  was  insufficient  almost  to  distinguish  the 
ex  voti  hanging  about  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  I  could 
read  wonderful  words,  —  of  love,  of  love,  of  happy 
love,  partaking  as  much  of  heaven  as  of  earth,  yet 


202  SEUV1ROL. 

sweetly  earthly,  too,  as  flowers  are  earthly  and  yet 
must  be  grateful  to  a  kind  God,  who  hates  not  the 
world  he  made,  and  are  allowed  to  grow  and  fulfil 
themselves.  It  seemed  as  if  I  were  reading  in  my 
own  souL  '  Oh,  not  to  be  shut  out  from  love ! '  I 
cried ;  and  nothing  rose  to  reprove  me,  my  friend 
made  no  sign.  '  If  I  am  a  tree,  not  to  pluck  off  every 
budding  leaf  and  rosy  bud,  but  to  be  myself  and 
drink  in  the  warm  light,  and  trust  to  God  that  the 
thing  he  framed  be  not  evil  in  his  sight.  If  I  am  a 
stream,  to  leap  down  the  hills  in  search  of  the  deep, 
and  not  to  stagnate  in  a  dark  basin.'  And  the  next 
day  I  bared  my  heart  to  Father  Euphrasius,  who  loved 
me  as  a  son,  yet  had  always  vowed  mine  was  no  true 
vocation,  —  only  a  vast  love  of  dreaming.  And  the 
day  after  that,  when  I  was  almost  repenting  my  de 
cision  to  resume  the  unsheltered  life  in  my  own  hall, 
I  saw  her,  —  she  came  to  the  church  in  accomplish 
ment  of  a  vow  made  in  sickness,  —  and  I  thanked 
God  that  I  was  alive." 

"  And  you  still  feel  the  same  gratitude  ? "  asked 
Andre*  after  a  time,  willing  to  break  the  spell  of  his 
friend's  emotion,  which  indefinably  jarred  upon  him, 
—  "  all  your  gilding  is  good,  all  your  links  hold  ? " 

Servirol  opened  his  lips  to  reply,  then  hesitated 
a  second.  He  could  have  answered  with  enthusiasm 
that  his  gratitude  endured ;  but  at  the  question  had 
flashed  back  on  him  a  sense  of  occasions,  just  a  few, 
when  it  had  seemed  to  him  in  a  half-formed  way 
that  the  best  reality  fell  a  little  short  of  the  dream. 
But  that  only  meant  that  the  earth  is  still  the  earth, 
and  a  little  worse  than  heaven.  So  he  answered 


SEEVIROL.  203 

with  full  conscience  of  truthfulness  :  "I  am  grateful 
now  as  then,  Andre*.  May  God  refuse  me  forgiveness 
when  I  cease  to  be  grateful  to  the  loveliest  among 
women  for  the  happiness  that  has  most  made  me 
believe  in  the  gentleness  of  God." 

"  But  whence  comes  that  you  are  at  this  moment 
not  at  the  feet  of  the  worshipped  beauty,  counting  off 
to  her  these  amenities,  as  I  could  fancy  you  once 
counting  off  on  your  rosary  prayers  to  the  Maiden 
Immaculate  ?  What  may  so  good  a  husband  be 
doing  far  from  home  ? " 

"  Your  words  seem  a  just  reproach.  I  have  been 
four  days  absent.  But  truly  the  storm  of  itself  would 
not  have  been  enough  to  break  my  homeward  jour 
ney.  I  hoped  to  find  the  forester  here.  I  have 
waited  for  him.  The  business  I  have  been  about  in 
terests  him.  The  account  of  that,  if  you  are  patient, 
I  will  keep  until  we  reach  home ;  for  I  must  tell 
it  to  my  wife,  and  it  would  be  tedious  for  you  to  hear 
twice  over.  Are  you  inclined  to  ride  ?  Or,  will  it 
not  be  better  for  you  to  wait  until  I  have  reached  the 
hamlet,  when  I  will  direct  men  with  a  litter  —  " 

Andre*  interrupted  him  with  a  sound  of  scorn,  and 
got  to  his  feet. 

Presently  the  two  gentlemen  rode  slowly  side  by 
side,  through  the  gathering  shadow,  out  of  the  drip 
ping  woods,  toward  the  seat  of  the  Servirols. 

The  hall  appeared  very  plain,  very  bare ;  but  the 
greater  part  of  it  was  lost  to  sight,  the  rays  of  the 
iron  lamp  reaching  little  beyond  the  table  on  which 
it  stood,  and  the  fire  which  earlier  had  leaped  up 


204  SERVIROL. 

under  the  ample  hood  having  sunk  into  a  glowering 
heap. 

Andre*  sat  with  his  back  to  that,  facing  the  lady  of 
the  house.  Such  weariness  had  overtaken  him,  and 
temporary  abstraction  from  himself,  that  he  forgot  to 
preserve  his  affected  demeanor  of  a  man  in  full  health 
and  spirits.  Now  that  the  meal  was  done,  he  sat 
collapsed  in  his  large  chair,  with  his  head  sunk  be 
tween  his  shoulders,  staring  quietly  at  the  vacant 
dark  space  between  Servirol  and  his  wife;  so  he 
could  see  both. 

Little  was  changed  in  the  old  house  since  the  day 
of  his  brief  sojourning  there,  —  a  wild  lad  sent  from 
a  home  whence  the  father  who  could  have  controlled 
him  was  missing.  Only,  then  it  had  seemed  a  prison, 
and  he  had  at  the  first  opportunity  run  away  from 
it  to  join  the  adolescent  king  whose  fame  fired  his 
fancy;  while  now  it  seemed,  if  a  prison  at  all,  a 
pleasing  one,  with  a  warder  such  as  the  eyes  could 
not  easily  become  tired  of  gazing  upon. 

The  ascete  had  proved  himself  no  such  mean  judge 
of  beauty.  Andre*  felt  an  impersonal  spite  against 
Nature  for  her  wastefulness.  The  plain  creature 
whom  he  had  pictured  as  Servirol's  wife  would  have 
been  far  more  befitting  these  poor  surroundings,  this 
simple  man,  than  the  actual  woman  with  her  super 
fluous  perfections. 

She  was  a  spot  of  light  on  the  dark  room.  Her 
gown  was  white,  so  thickly  covered  with  violet  silk 
needlework  that  it  showed  like  a  rich  brocade  ;  her 
coif,  that  fitted  the  sides  of  her  head  closely,  and 
came  well  behind  the  small  rosy  ears,  falling  in  a 


SERVIROL.  205 

fold  down  the  back  of  her  neck,  was  violet ;  but  from 
under  the  edge  of  it,  against  her  hair,  came  a  band 
of  black  that  helped  the  hair  to  its  vivid  gold,  and 
the  skin  to  its  excessive  fairness.  She  wore  no  jewels 
save  a  single  little  ring. 

Her  face  had  in  line  and  hue  and  texture  all  the 
beauty  of  youth  in  its  bloom.  Her  features  were 
very  delicately  and  perfectly  cut :  the  nose  narrow, 
the  lips  thin,  the  chin  round ;  her  small  head  turned 
on  a  large  milk-white  throat  faintly  marked  with  a 
Venus-collar.  Her  body  had  reached  just  such  har 
moniously  generous  proportions  as  made  seemly  in 
her  a  certain  slowness  of  movement,  —  something 
between  majesty  and  a  pretty  pensive  laziness. 

She  sat  in  a  high-backed  chair ;  her  face  outlined 
itself  delightfully  to  the  two  men's  eyes  against  the 
carved  black  wood. 

She  looked  at  Servirol  while  he  spoke,  through  the 
lowered  fringe  of  her  lashes ;  stone-colored  eyes  she 
had,  never  fully  open,  nobly  overhung  by  broad, 
smooth  lids :  one  could  not  surely  say  whether  she 
were  listening  to  him  or  following  thoughts  of  her 
own. 

A  maid  stood  behind  her  in  the  shadow,  ready  to 
wait  on  her.  The  servant's  head  was  just  seen  above 
Aurore's  chair,  —  a  pale,  youthful  face  under  a  dark 
coif  that  completely  covered  the  hair. 

"  I  will  tell  you  first,"  said  Servirol,  turning,  as  he 
told  his  story,  now  to  Andre*,  now  to  his  wife,  help 
ing  his  speech  with  abundant  gesture  of  his  expres- 
sive  hands,  "  that  my  errand  was  entirely  successful. 
I  will  not  keep  you  in  suspense,  as  a  better  story- 


206  SERVIROL. 

teller  would  think  himself  bound  to  do.  Pierre,  my 
dear  Aurore,  is  forgiven !  Was  it  not  worth  the  four 
days'  absence,  disagreeable  as  they  in  themselves 
were  ?  This  Pierre,  you  must  know,  Andre*,  is  a  poor 
lad  on  our  neighbor  De  Gueldre's  estate,  —  a  young 
vine-dresser  for  whose  broad  brown  face  one  must 
have  a  liking.  He  is  a  wild,  but  not  a  bad  fellow. 
He  got  himself  into  trouble :  he  is  always  getting 
himself  into  trouble ;  but  this  time  it  was  much 
worse  than  ever  before.  He  was  caught  deer-stealing 
in  De  Mirolune's  forest.  De  Mirolune,  you  perhaps 
remember,  is  rather  more  distantly  our  neighbor. 
Now,  your  king,  —  I  speak  respectfully,  he  is  my 
king  as  well,  and  I  am  his  loyal  subject;  yet  I 
declare  it,  —  he  has  made  the  game  laws  cruel.  Yes, 
they  are  cruel.  A  man,  before  God !  is  worth  a  little 
more  than  a  spotted  deer;  and  a  man  without  his 
right  hand  is  a  thing  the  king  should  weep  over 
where  he  is  found,  and  not  himself  make  a  common 
sight.  De  Mirolune,  who  does  not  seem  to  know 
very  well  what  he  does,  taking  advantage  of  the 
king's  law,  was  for  having  Pierre's  hand  off.  I  heard 
of  it  through  his  sweetheart,  who,  not  knowing  where 
else  to  turn  for  help,  came  in  mortal  terror  to  cast 
herself  at  my  feet,  praying  that  I  should  interfere. 
It  would  have  hurt  you  to  see  the  poor,  pretty  face, 
white  as  linen.  I  rode  immediately  to  De  Miro 
lune's  on  a  ceremonious  visit.  He  is  slightly  my 
wife's  cousin.  There  I  found  out  how  matters  stood ; 
and  (I  will  spare  you  a  long  account  of  our  conver 
sations  ;  some  of  them  animated,  I  can  promise) 
finally  persuaded  him  to  surrender  the  satisfaction  of 


SERVIKOL.  207 

seeing  how  a  poacher's  hand  looks  severed,  and  what 
face  the  wretch  makes  who  has  to  do  without  it. 
Praise  me  a  little,  Aurore,"  he  said  boyishly,  bending 
forward  toward  her ;  "  I  have  done  nothing  good,  but 
through  me  a  bad  action  has  been  prevented,  and  I 
love  your  praise  —  " 

"  Did  you  say,"  asked  Aurore,  —  when  she  spoke 
were  discovered  through  her  narrow  smile  rows  of 
beautiful,  even  pearl,  —  "  did  I  understand  that  our 
cousin  the  Seigneur  de  Mirolune  gave  up  the 
manant  like  that,  simply  for  nothing  but  your 
eloquence  ? " 

Servirol  for  a  second  looked  ever  so  little  embar 
rassed.  "  No ;  I  was  not  eloquent  enough  for  that.  I 
confess  he  is  not  easy  to  argue  with.  Eeasons  that 
to  me  seem  better  than  good  scarcely  affect  him 
at  all.  I  tried  to  make  him  put  himself  in  the 
offender's  place,  and  see  how  the  rigidity  of  the  game 
laws  impressed  him  from  that  point ;  but  he  found 
it  impossible  to  do.  He  could  be  no  one,  even  in 
thought,  but  the  great  De  Mirolune,  with  the  right 
from  the  king  to  maim  and  disfigure ;  the  king  having 
received  that  same  right  from  God,  I  must  suppose. 
So,  as  Pierre's  hand  had  to  be  saved  at  any  price, 
and  poor  Gnon's  tears  dried,  I  offered  him,  if  he 
would  oblige  me,  that  bit  of  vine-land  he  has  so  often 
wished  were  his,  and  that  I  had  still  not  been  in 
clined  to  gratify  him  with  — " 

"Our  manants  in  these  parts,  as  you  see,"  said 
Aurore,  turning  to  Andre*  with  her  fine  small  smile, 
"  are  worth  not  only  a  spotted  deer  ;  they  are  worth 
each  beside  a  yearly  dozen  casks  of  fragrant  amber 


208  SERVIROL. 

wine.     Etienne  will  tell  you  how  much  else.     My 
self,  I  do  not  know." 

"  Ah,  do  not  jest,  dear,"  cried  Servirol.  "  In  your 
heart  you  feel  the  same  as  I  do.  We  are  all  poor 
things,"  he  said  rapidly,  warmly,  "  put  on  this  hard 
earth  together,  sorely  needing  one  another.  God 
made  us  all,  —  all.  How  can  we  hurt  a  brother  ?  Life 
is  too  short  to  accomplish  more  than  a  very  little 
good ;  how  shall  we  waste  time  doing  evil  ?  My 
self,  I  wonder  that  one  can  harm  any  being,  —  it 
hurts  oneself  so  much  more,  one  suffers  so  from  pain 
one  inflicts  !  Ah,  you  said  in  jest  that  you  did  not 
know  how  much  more  than  a  deer  and  various  casks 
of  wine  a  peasant  is  worth.  I  do  not  know  how 
much  he  may  be  worth,  but  he  is  worth  as  much  as 
I  am.  He  is  framed  like  me,  he  too  has  loves  and 
dreams  and  powers,  —  powers,  yes,  until  they  take 
his  hand  from  him.  Our  souls  when  we  are  dead 
will  stand  side  by  side,  or  his  be  lifted  before  mine, 
as  he  was  the  humbler  of  heart.  Oh,  that  boy !  if 
you  had  heard  his  despair  when  he  still  thought 
himself  doomed.  All  his  courage  had  died,  —  he 
sobbed.  He  could  not  work  any  more  like  other 
men,  —  he  would  be  an  object  of  pity,  if  not  derision, 
—  everything  in  the  world  was  become  a  bitterness 
to  him, — he  cursed  his  Maker!  Then,  suddenly, 
the  danger  had  passed  like  a  bad  dream.  He  was  to 
take  up  life  at  the  point  before  it  had  turned  horrible. 
Gnon  hung  round  his  neck,  laughing  and  crying  and 
kissing.  They  will  marry  and  have  children,  —  God 
bless  them  !  —  work  and  be  happy  —  " 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  cease !  "  said  Aurore,  in  a  tone  that 


SERVIKOL.  209 

made  contrast  with  his  emotion  and  checked  at  once 
the  flow  of  it.  "  The  Seigneur  La  Jouvence  does  not, 
I  suspect,  interest  himself  as  you  do  in  these  vileins. 
He  may  in  that  resemble  me,"  she  added  lower,  yet 
making  every  syllable  distinct. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Servirol,  with  compunc 
tion,  "  Aurore  is  right.  I  let  myself  go.  I  say  it  all 
aloud  instead  of  merely  thinking  it.  I  forget  that  it 
goes  without  saying." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Andre*  bent  for 
ward,  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  table,  his  chin  on  his 
palm,  and  gazed  at  Aurore  with  undisguisedly  enliv 
ened  interest. 

"  The  features  of  the  noble  Dame  de  Servirol,"  he 
said  to  her  presently,  with  the  smile  and  the  tone 
of  old  and  better  days,  "if  the  liberty  of  speaking 
of  them  may  be  accorded  a  cousin,  bring  insistently 
to  the  mind  those  of  Diane,  Duchesse  de  Mortclaire, 
whose  presence  graced  the  court  on  many  occasions 
ever  to  be  remembered." 

"  The  Duchesse  Diane  ?  "  asked  Aurore.  "  I  know 
of  whom  you  speak.  Echoes  of  the  world  reach  us 
even  here  among  the  peasants  and  the  wolves,  mon 
Seigneur.  And  was  it  not  to  her  that  his  Majesty 
himself  addressed  a  madrigal  in  which  she  was  set 
above  the  goddess  her  namesake  ? " 

"  You  have  been  well  informed ;  it  was  to 
herself." 

"  Tell  me  of  that  great  lady  and  of  the  king ;  de 
scribe  to  us  the  life  among  those  renowned  ones.  It 
is  not  often  we  have  occasion  to  speak  with  one  who 
has  in  his  own  person  witnessed  the  battles  and  the 

14 


210  SERV1ROL. 

pageants,  the  tourneys  and  parleys  and  councils  that 
shall  live  in  history." 

And  La  Jouvence  launched  into  bright-colored 
descriptions. 

Servirol  after  his  apology  had  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  feeling  a  shade  lost,  not  knowing  exactly  what 
had  happened.  One  thing  was  borne  upon  him,  and 
it  filled  him  with  a  vague  pain  :  Aurore  felt  no  sym 
pathy  with  his  joy  at  Pierre's  deliverance.  She  had 
been  vexed  with  himself,  —  but  why  ?  He  could  not 
imagine;  only  she  had  been  somehow  vexed,  and 
that  had  made  her  choose  not  to  seem  to  care  about 
Pierre.  He  could  find  no  response  in  her  face.  For 
the  first  time,  as  his  loving,  questioning  eyes 
swept  it,  it  made  on  him  the  impression  of  a  shut 
book. 

For  the  first  time  ?  Suddenly,  strangely,  he 
felt  as  if  it  were  not  the  first  time,  —  there  had  not 
been  a  first  time ;  and  this  pain,  —  it  was  not  the 
first  time  either. 

Her  eyes  were  dropped  on  her  hands  :  she  was 
playing  with  her  gold  ring  while  the  awkward  little 
silence  lasted.  She  would  not  look  up.  With  a 
feeling  of  dim  despair  he  lifted  his  eyes  from  her 
face,  deaf  and  blind  at  that  moment  to  a  peasant's 
joys  and  woes ;  they  chanced  upon  the  face  that 
rose  behind  her  chair,  and  rested  upon  it  with  grow 
ing  wonder.  The  servant,  —  could  it  be  ?  —  her  eyes 
seemed  to  him  swimming  with  tears. 

It  was  Barberine,  a  poor  orphan  taken  from  the 
convent  to  be  Aurore's  handmaid.  She  moved  noise 
lessly  ;  she  was  always  silent,  always  in  the  shadow, — 


SERVIROL.  211 

one  was  never  aware  of  her  presence  except  one 
needed  her  service.  Yet  she  was  young,  —  he  saw  it 
at  this  moment  for  the  first  time ;  her  face  had  al 
most  a  sort  of  sweetness  in  that  nun-like  coif  that 
came  down  over  the  forehead  and  covered  the  ears. 
She  might  be  graceful  under  the  straight  dark  gown 
that  disguised  her  form.  She  was  pale  and  a  little 
thin;  it  made  her  gray  eyes  with  their  tears  look 
large. 

Her  glance  met  his  full  of  comprehension ;  she  did 
not  seem  aware  that  she  was  staring  hard  at  the 
master.  She  had  heard  him  tell  of  the  rescued  Irac- 
conier  ;  it  had  moved  her,  and  she  had  forgotten  her 
self,  expressing  her  joy  at  what  he  had  done  with 
those  tears.  Suddenly  his  pain  had  increased,  had 
become  almost  keen.  He  took  his  eyes  from  her  and 
listened  to  Andre",  who  even  at  this  moment  had  bent 
forward  to  break  the  silence  by  his  remark  on  the 
resemblance  between  Aurore  and  the  Duchesse  de 
Mortclaire. 

He  followed  the  conversation  that  ensued  with 
determined  attention,  occasionally  putting  in  his 
word.  His  friend  was  without  doubt  delightful ;  he 
was  pleased  that  he  could  so  well  entertain  Aurore, 
for  whom  their  quiet  life  must  sometimes  be  dull. 
He  was  also  pleased  that  Aurore  could  show  so  much 
esprit ;  it  was  good  in  her  to  exert  herself  to  make 
their  poor  house  pleasant  for  his  unfortunate  wounded 
friend.  His  pride  in  her  and  his  gratitude  to  her 
crowded  into  the  background  those  other  feelings. 
He  gave  himself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  Andre"s 
vivid  tales. 


212  SERVIROL. 

The  sick  man  with  ever  increasing  feverish  excite 
ment  was  describing  to  them  nothing  less  than  a 
camp  prepared  for  the  meeting  of  two  young  kings, 
the  tents  being  all  of  golden  cloth,  —  when  he  broke 
in  the  rnid  of  a  phrase,  his  pale  head  dropped  on 
his  breast ;  he  must  be  carried  to  bed  and  restored. 

When  Servirol  had  seen  his  friend  made  easy 
and  dosing  off  under  the  watch  of  Modeste,  the 
ancient  nurse  of  the  family,  he  did  not  at  once 
retire  to  sleep. 

The  moon  had  risen  in  full  splendor,  triumphing 
over  the  storm  clouds.  Servirol  looked  out  at  it 
a  moment.  The  night  did  not  give  him  the  usual 
joy.  He  turned  from  it ;  but  now  to  his  eyes  filled 
with  the  pure  light,  his  lungs  filled  with  the  dewy 
air,  the  house  seemed  dark  and  close  like  the  tomb, 
and  the  sleep  that  could  have  made  him  oblivious 
was  far  from  his  eyes.  He  went  out  into  the  moon 
light  to  walk  down  his  unrest. 

Why  this  misery  ?  He  could  not  examine  into 
it;  he  only  wished  to  turn  from  it  without  defini 
tion,  to  make  as  if  it  had  never  been,  to  be  the 
man  he  was  before.  It  was  only  a  little  thing.  It 
would  pass ;  pass  it  must. 

And  he  walked  on,  farther  and  farther,  attaining 
as  he  went  a  due  increase  of  the  desired  calm. 

He  passed  the  sleeping  hamlet  that  lay  below 
the  hall  He  was  himself  again  and  went  com 
posedly,  meditating  a  return  on  his  steps,  when  at 
a  certain  point  in  the  road  skirting  the  hill  he 
came  suddenly  in  sight  of  the  monastery  walls, 


SERVIROL.  213 

gleaming  high  up,  far  away,  white  in  the  moon 
light. 

He  must  have  known  that  he  should  see  them, 
yet  the  sight  gave  him  a  pang.  Something  within 
him  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  left  them  cried 
out  irrepressibly,  "  Oh  that  I  were  within  them, 
again,  that  I  had  never  left  them ! " 

This  homesickness  was  too  strong  to  be  at  once 
overcome.  He  stood  in  the  road  staring  at  the 
walls,  swept  by  the  tide  of  his  memories  back 
along  the  old  quiet  days  when  Heaven  had  seemed 
so  near,  when  at  dusk  sometimes  the  picture  of 
Mary  he  had  been  praying  before  till  he  was  faint 
seemed  to  become  alive :  the  stars  that  crowned 
her  darted  long  rays,  and  she  bent  down  from  the 
cloudy  background  and  whispered  him  promises  of 
good  to  the  world.  He  longed  to  see  the  friend 
of  his  youth,  Father  Euphrasius,  to  confess  to  him 
many  things,  to  be  helped  by  him.  He  could  have 
cast  himself  face  downward  in  the  drenched  grass 
by  the  roadside,  weeping  endlessly. 

He  turned  quickly,  and  ran  homeward,  with  a 
sense  of  guiltiness. 

The  night-air  coming  swiftly  against  him  did 
much  to  dispel  the  mists  in  his  brain.  The  glory 
of  the  moon  had  at  last  wooed  him  from  himself. 

He  reached  his  door  and  there  stopped  irresolute, 
still  loath  to  go  within.  He  stood  looking  upward, 
taking  on  his  face  the  benison  of  moon  and  stars. 
Not  far  from  the  hall  was  a  little  wood  divided  by  a 
straight  grassy  road  leading  to  a  small  open  chapel. 
He  would  walk  just  so  much  farther  and  pray,  then 


214  SERVIROL. 

home  again  and  to  sleep.     He  turned  his  steps  to 
ward  the  chapel. 

The  moon  fretted  the  ground  with  softly  swinging 
spots  of  light.  At  the  end  of  the  avenue  rose  the 
shrine.  The  high  moon  whitened  its  roof  and  steps ; 
darkness  filled  the  sheltered  chamber,  at  the  back  of 
which  was  painted  the  image  at  whose  feet  the  de 
vout  placed  sheaves  of  flowers.  Servirol  was  almost 
at  the  steps,  when  he  stopped.  Some  one  had  come 
before  him.  How  strange  that  another  than  he 
should  have  chosen  this  hour !  He  could  barely  dis 
tinguish,  now  that  he  looked  searchingly,  a  shade 
within  the  shade  in  the  interior  of  the  chapel.  It 
was  a  half-stifled  voice  that  warned  him  of  a  human 
presence.  What  poor  soul  came  to  importune  the 
Queen  of  Heaven  so  late,  and  with  what  petition  ? 
It  must  be  one  of  the  peasants  from  his  hamlet,  — 
a  woman,  he  thought,  with  some  secret  sorrow  that 
would  not  let  her  sleep,  but  made  her  wander  forth 
as  he  had  wandered,  seeking  healing  from  the  night. 
The  peasants  often  came  there.  Even  at  this  moment 
lay  on  the  steps  a  limp  knot  of  field-flowers,  washed 
pearly- white  with  moonshine.  Perhaps,  if  he  but 
knew,  he  could  help  this  creature  that  sighed  so 
heavily  while  praying,  —  the  Virgin  might  answer 
her  prayer  through  him.  He  stood  still,  scarcely  dis 
cernible  in  the  shadow  under  the  trees,  his  black 
garments  and  bare  black  head  faintly  freckled  with 
the  sifted  white  light. 

The  voice  rose  now  and  then  to  something  more 
than  a  murmur,  and  he  caught  a  phrase  meant  for 
Heaven's  ear.  The  one  who  prayed  was  not  repeat- 


SERVIROL.  215 

ing  the  ordinary  established  orisons,  but  talking  to 
God's  mother  from  the  heart,  —  with  entreaties,  con 
fessions,  self-accusations.  He  listened  with  wonder. 
The  words  would  suddenly  come  in  a  passionate 
flood,  to  end  in  unintelligible  smothered  babblings 
that  brought  before  the  mind  a  face  buried  on  the 
arms  stretched  over  the  altar. 

He  understood  at  last  what  the  poor  creature  was 
praying ;  and  then  he  did  not,  as  he  had  intended, 
make  known  his  presence,  —  speak  softly  to  her  and 
offer  aid.  He  had  stumbled  upon  a  heart's  secret ;  it 
was  safe  with  him,  and  he  was  so  full  of  a  vast  fellow- 
feeling  that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  he  must  flee  at 
once  from  further  hearing,  he  had  no  right  to  be 
there.  His  heart  itself  held  him  there. 

"  Mary,  Mary,  Mary ! "  went  the  voice,  with  inter 
ruptions  and  long  pauses,  "  it  is  not  a  sin  to  so  love 
him.  You  can  look  into  my  heart  and  assure  your 
self  that  I  cannot  help  it !  The  blind-born  could 
more  easily  see,  than  I,  having  seen,  not  love  him. 
Have  you  the  heart  of  a  woman  ?  Then  grant  me 
somewhat.  So  little  I  ask  !  But  something  I  must 
have  or  everlastingly  despair.  It  is  not  that  he 
should  love  me,  —  such  a  thing  could  never  be :  the 
stars  are  nailed  up  fast  in  the  skies,  I  know  it ;  they 
do  not  change  for  any  asking  of  ours.  It  is  not  that 
he  should  give  me  pity,  —  I  should  not  want  him  to 
know  how  fit  an  object  for  pity  I  am.  I  would  only 
wish  that  in  some  strange  way  —  Mary,  to  whom  all 
things  are  possible  !  —  I  might  be  near  him,  that  he 
might  even  unknowingly  softly  touch  me.  I  am  so 
lowly  that  I  could  be  content.  The  other  day,  I  con- 


216  SERVIROL. 

fess  it  to  you  alone,  I  tangled  in  the  embroidery  on 
his  collar  one  of  my  long  hairs ;  and  all  day  I  was 
happy  because  I  saw  that  it  went  with  him.  Can 
you  not  make  me  his  hound  ?  I  could  stay  at  his 
feet,  I  should  be  something  to  him.  Or,  less  than 
that,  any  dumb  object  that  he  should  dignify  by 
using  I  could  content  myself  to  be.  Make  me  but 
his  book  of  hours,  Mary,  Mary,  that  I  may  feel  his 
eyes  !  —  nothing  but  his  cup,  his  riding- whip,  the 
brooch  in  his  cap  —  Ah,  Mother  of  God !  this  is  mad 
ness.  Is  it  wickedness  too  ?  Deal  with  me,  then :  I 
submit.  But  consider  the  pain,  the  heavy  punish 
ment  already,  of  feeling  that  where  I  would  give  my 
life  gladly  to  the  last  drop,  not  a  little  of  it  is  wanted, 
none  needed,  none  of  the  smallest  use  or  pleasure. 
Oh,  good  mother  of  the  afflicted,  make  me  to  suffer 
less !  I  hurt  no  one,  I  do  what  I  can  to  comfort  the 
afflicted,  —  I  too,  wherever  I  find  them.  Comfort 
me  !  It  is  not  to  take  this  love  away,  I  pray  you,  — 
you  never  could,  and  I  could  not  bear  it  to  go,  —  but 
sanctify  it,  if  so  it  may  be.  Make  it  to  lie  still  in 
my  heart,  like  an  imprisoned  dove  with  wings  folded, 
and  be  silent  always,  and  ask  for  nothing.  Lift  from 
it,  if  it  displeases  God,  every  earthly  yearning.  If  it 
be  wrong  for  me  to  have  my  wish,  make  me  no 
more  so  madly  to  want  it ! " 

Now,  as  the  prayer  continued,  it  was  less  frequently 
interrupted ;  the  voice  was  less  broken,  as  if  the  one 
who  prayed  had  already  gained  a  little  courage.  It 
must  be  coming  to  an  end,  when  she  would  emerge 
from  the  shadow,  and  pass  over  the  brightly  illumined 
steps. 


SERVIROL.  217 

Servirol  felt  that  he  must  not  be  seen,  but  even 
more  strongly  that  he  must  not  see.  Softly  he  slipped 
among  the  trees,  and  sought  home  by  a  way  she 
would  be  sure  not  to  follow;  for  it  led  by  a  dark 
tarn,  near  which  had  at  some  time  been  seen  a 
wandering  flame  that  the  peasants  invested  with  a 
weird  quality,  and  preferred  not  exposing  them 
selves  to  meet.  He  passed  the  sheet  of  black, 
stilly,  mantled  water,  unimpressed,  —  though  he 
was  superstitious  too,  —  so  was  his  mind  on  this  oc 
casion  preoccupied  with  wonder  over  what  he  had 
heard. 

That  strange  love-lament  woke  a  thousand  echoes 
in  his  breast.  He  knew  all  that  so  well !  Only,  he 
was  happy  in  love,  as  that  poor  one  was  evidently 
hapless;  and  he  was  a  full-grown  man,  while  that 
seemed  to  him  the  utterance  of  some  very  young 
thing.  But  he  recognized  a  sister  soul :  that  was  his 
own  way  of  love,  —  that  unreserved  dedication  of 
flesh  and  spirit.  Ah,  did  not  he  love  his  love,  then,  — 
all  her  soul  as  he  divined  it  through  her  eyes,  —  her 
thoughts,  whether  she  said  them  or  they  only  passed 
like  reflections  of  sunshine  or  shadows  of  angel-wings 
across  her  face  !  But  not  only  her  immortal  part  he 
loved :  every  perishable  golden  hair  of  her  was  dear 
to  him,  every  word  and  smile,  —  the  dimple  too 
that  deepened  when  she  laughed,  the  play  of  shadow 
round  her  mouth  when  she  spoke.  He  was  pene 
trated  through  and  through  with  his  worship  of 
her ;  the  common  touch  of  her  hand  could  never 
become  an  old,  stale  story.  The  poor  child  that 
prayed,  —  might  God  grant  her  joy,  as  to  him  !  He 


218  SERVIROL. 

should  remember  always  to -petition  for  her  when 
thanking  God  for  himself. 

He  wondered  which  of  the  woman-faces  he  knew 
could  conceal  such  a  heart,  and  which  of  the  men 
could  have  aroused  such  passion ;  but  there  was 
nothing  to  assist  him  in  conjecturing. 

His  own  triumphant  love,  arising  to  declare  itself 
anew,  had  drowned  all  vestige  of  his  earlier  uneasy 
mood.  He  stopped  a  moment  at  Aurore's  door  be 
fore  going  to  rest,  and  silently  conjured  the  angels  to 
keep  her,  good  dreams  to  visit  her. 

Aurore  spent  most  of  the  day  seated  before  her 
great  embroidery-frame  in  the  deep  embrasure  of  a 
window,  leisurely  working  flowers  on  smooth  reaches 
of  pale  silken  stuff, — fantastic  flowers,  always  of  such 
color  and  design  as  subsequently  used  in  her  attire 
with  masterly  aptness  set  off  her  beauty.  In  the 
window,  against  the  small  sun-warm  panes,  spread 
themselves  green  plants,  tempering  the  light,  and 
making  the  nook  pleasantly  like  a  woodland  bower. 

There,  while  his  sickness  lasted,  La  Jouvence, 
grown  chilly,  came  to  sit  in  the  soft  warm  light, 
and  watch  the  white  hands  busy  with  brilliant 
silks. 

Time  was  heavy  with  him.  News  was  rare  in  that 
remote  spot ;  and  the  chance  unreliable  news  one 
derived  from  those  who  had  been  in  the  city,  at  best, 
disheartening,  —  long-dragging  negotiations  for  the 
king's  liberty,  that  ever  and  ever  came  to  nothing. 
Andre*  would  have  despaired,  had  he  not  been  Andre*. 
He  bravely  subdued  his  fretfulness,  and  did  what  he 


SERVIKOL.  219 

could  to  lighten  his  enforced  leisure,  and  make  his 
intrusion  light  to  his  hostess. 

Servirol  was  often  with  them,  and  listened  to 
Andre"s  never  exhausted  tales,  charmed  with  the 
sparkling  flow  of  his  words.  The  court,  those  early 
brilliant  foreign  wars,  the  king's  good  fortunes  and 
his  misfortunes,  furnished  the  ordinary  topics  of  con 
versation.  And  Andre"s  own  adventures,  —  for  he 
was  part  of  history,  one  of  the  blocks  that  make  the 
pedestal  on  which  stand  those  whom  the  rays  of  glory 
illumine.  He  himself  had  as  a  stripling  been  one 
that  helped  in  the  swift  erection  of  the  famous 
bridges  over  which  the  guns  were  dragged ;  with  his 
own  ears  he  had  heard  the  clear  notes  of  the  trum 
peter  rallying  the  men  all  through  the  night.  Ah, 
that  gallant  time  of  the  world,  when  the  kings  of  the 
earth  were  young  and  athirst  for  fame  and  pleasure, 
and  all  things  were  done  with  such  careless  magnifi 
cence  !  Ah,  those  days  when  heroes  were  the  rule ; 
and  what  heroes,  —  grand,  beautiful,  splendid ! " 

Aurore  listened,  slowly  stitching,  never  satisfied 
with  hearing.  Servirol  listened,  unfailingly  interested 
too.  But  he  could  not  remain  so  long  as  he  would 
have  wished;  other  things  called  him.  The  master 
has  many  responsibilities,  and  he  took  his  peasants 
greatly  to  heart  in  these  hard,  heavily  taxed  days. 
He  was  glad  that  in  leaving  Aurore  and  Andre"  he 
left  each  in  such  good  company. 

In  his  rides  and  walks,  whither  his  various  affairs 
took  him,  he  often  found  himself  puzzling  over  Andre* 
and  the  men  Andre*  told  of.  So  brave  they  were,  so 
keen  for  honor,  so  unsparing  of  body  and  blood,  so 


220  SERVIROL. 

true  to  their  word  given  under  certain  circumstances ! 
And  then  again  these  same  men  seemed  to  him  in 
stories  that  Andre"  told  freely,  as  if  they  had  been 
to  the  credit  of  those  concerned,  so  cruel  and  so 
false,  —  such  dishonored  gentlemen  !  The  story  of 
that  unfortunate  mayor's  daughter,  who  came  in  pro 
cession  with  her  flower-wreathed,  white-clad  com 
panions  to  give  up  the  keys  of  a  city,  and  thought 
fittest  to  spoil  the  beauty  of  her  face  because  she 
had  seen  in  the  king's  eyes  that  he  found  it  fair, 
made  him  sick  to  the  soul  What  strange  period 
of  its  development  had  the  race  of  men  in  courts 
reached,  when  it  could  be  at  once  so  fine  and  so 
fantastically  bad  !  His  heart  was  often  heavy  over 
it.  He  was  glad  to  think  that  this  removed  quiet 
spot  had  not  been  touched  yet  with  a  corruption  like 
that,  all  mantled  over  with  pleasing  colors ;  that  his 
guest  himself  had  escaped,  though  he  spoke  toler 
antly  of  it,  exposed  it  laughingly.  Certainly  one 
should  not  judge  harshly ;  yet  he  almost  wished  that 
Andre"  had  shown  a  more  definite  sense  of  it. 

Andre"  slowly  progressed  toward  health  ;  the  color 
came  back  into  his  pale  face  ;  he  was  able  to  join 
Servirol  in  his  rides,  —  but  not  often,  as  there  would 
long  be  danger  of  his  hurt  opening  at  any  more  than 
ordinary  exertion. 

From  the  old  portmanteau  appeared  a  wonderful 
gala-costume  to  take  the  place  of  the  faded  green  and 
rose, — an  azure  satin,  gold  embroidered,  and  abun 
dantly  slashed  with  white.  This  intensified  the 
point  to  many  of  Andre's  stories;  it  seemed  to  re 
vive  about  him  fugitively  the  atmosphere  of  the  fes- 


SERVIROL.  221 

tivities  at  which  it  had  shone.  When  he  leaned  far 
back  with  crossed  legs,  touching  the  lute  and  singing 
the  chansons  in  vogue  in  his  day  at  court,  —  some 
composed  by  no  less  than  royalty !  —  one  seemed  to 
have  gained  a  comprehension  of  what  the  king  himself 
might  be  singing  and  touching  the  lute,  so  elegantly 
was  it  done,  so  gallantly  were  the  lines,  always  on 
love,  delivered. 

"  Souvent  femme  varie, 
Bien  fol  qui  s'y  fie," 

he  sang  one  evening  when  asked  for  a  song. 

It  was  a  fair  evening,  a  little  after  sunset  at  the  end 
of  a  warm  day.  They  sat  at  table  on  a  terrace  at  the 
head  of  a  broad  flight  of  steps,  —  they  often  supped 
like  that  in  the  open  air,  and  lingered  long  enjoying 
the  serene  oncoming  of  the  shadow,  the  soft,  slow  bud 
ding  of  the  stars. 

"  Souvent  femme  varie, 
Bien  fol  qui  s'y  fie." 

The  words  brought  back  to  Servirol  the  circum 
stances  under  which  he  had  first  heard  them.  He 
could  but  contrast  the  Andre*  before  him  with  the 
Andre*  of  that  rainy  day  in  the  forester's  hut.  His 
heart  was  gladdened  at  his  friend's  improvement. 
In  connection  with  the  remembrance  of  that  after 
noon,  while  the  song  was  developing  its  melody, 
came  the  thought  of  what  had  indirectly  brought 
about  his  meeting  with  Andre*,  —  the  thought  of 
Pierre ;  then,  by  a  natural  sequence,  the  thought  of 
the  night  following  his  return  home,  when  Aurore 
had  seemed  —  when  he  had  had  strange,  unjust 


222  SERVIROL. 

thoughts  of  Aurore.  It  made  him  ashamed  to 
remember  them. 

He  looked  over  at  her,  asking  in  his  heart  her  for 
giveness  for  an  old  unconfessed  offence.  She  sat 
with  her  soft  cheek  on  her  soft  hand  watching  An 
dre'  while  he  sang,  with  her  steady,  half-closed  eyes, 
-  beautiful,  completely  beautiful.  Behind  her,  even 
as  on  that  night,  stood  the  servant  in  the  clumsy 
gown  and  the  dark  coif. 

"  Behold  the  audience ! "  laughed  Andre*  as  he 
stopped.  "  I  had  heard  that  piping  might  charm  a 
lizard.  Orpheus  charmed  tigers  ;  I,  vermine  !  David 
charmed  a  king ;  La  Jouvence,  a  pauvresse!" 

Servirol  turned  to  the  point  Andre"s  eyes  referred 
to.  He  saw  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  an  unknown 
beggar-woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  These  steps, 
at  the  back  of  the  dwelling,  led  to  an  unenclosed 
space,  —  hillside,  with  knolls  and  groups  of  uncul 
tivated  trees ;  the  woman  might  have  strayed  there 
from  the  road. 

Her  appearance  was  most  miserable ;  she  was  ugly 
and  hollow-cheeked,  in  rags ;  her  thinness  made  her 
eyes  look  wistfully  large.  The  little  baby  was  thin, 
too,  and  his  eyes  looked  wistfully  large. 

They  were,  perhaps,  listening  to  La  Jouvence's 
song,  —  well  worth  listening  to,  it  must  be  said ;  but 
they  were  more  certainly  looking  at  the  remains  of 
the  meal  on  the  table.  Their  eyes  hurt  the  master. 
Before  moving,  in  the  flash  of  thought  that  precedes 
action,  he  was  gathering  up  the  fragments  and  taking 
them  to  those  poor  ones,  bidding  them  sit  and  rest, 
giving  them  wine  and  good  words,  when  Aurore's 


SERVIROL.  223 

voice  fell  on  his  ear :  "  Drive  them  away,  I  pray  you. 
They  are  too  bold,  these  crasseux ;  they  annoy  me 
with  their  great,  hungry  eyes." 

He  looked  at  her.  She  had  spoken  in  a  sweet 
voice  ;  she  was  soft  and  beautiful,  beautiful  as  be 
fore.  It  seemed  like  the  return  of  a  bad  dream.  He 
felt  himself  standing  in  the  same  place  as  once  be 
fore,  saying  to  himself,  "  I  have  always  known  it, 
always  suffered  from  it." 

Involuntarily,  by  an  association,  his  eyes  lifted 
themselves  to  the  face  of  the  pale  servant.  Her  eyes 
answered  his,  full  of  understanding,  of  sympathy,  as 
before ;  her  whole  face  breathed  pity  and  goodness. 
Again  a  wave  of  strange  intense  pain  swept  through 
him. 

"  They  shall  go  farther  if  the  sight  of  them  dis 
pleases  you,"  he  said  gently ;  "  Barberine  will  help 
me.  Help  me,  Barberine." 

She  stepped  forward.  He  placed  in  her  hands  one 
of  the  old  silver  cups  marked  with  the  ancient  crest, 
and  the  flagon  with  what  remained  in  it  of  wine. 
He  took  the  loaf  of  bread  and  the  broken  pasty, 
and  master  and  maid  went  down  the  steps.  They 
and  the  wondering  beggar-girl,  bidden  to  follow, 
then  climbed  the  slope  and  vanished  behind  the 
trees. 

Aurore  looked  at  Andre*,  and  a  subtle  little  smile 
just  narrowed  her  long  eyes. 

Andre*  looked  at  her  with  those  shrewd  eyes  of  his, 
that  respected  nothing,  that  unhesitatingly  took 
height  and  depth  and  breadth  of  the  person  under 
review.  His  glance  said  that  he  made  no  mistake 


224  SERVIROL. 

about  her ;  but  such  as  she  was,  thought  her  worth  a 
gallant  knight's  pains  in  time  of  peace. 

Often  after  this  came  back  to  Servirol  that  sense 
of  anguish  in  looking  at  Aurora's  face.  He  strove 
with  it,  disposed  of  it,  quite  put  it  out  of  sight ;  then 
insidiously  it  was  again  upon  him,  insisting  upon 
itself. 

And  a  superfluous  bitterness  was  added  to  his  sor 
row  when  his  wife  fell  below  his  idolized  ideal  of  her, 
by  the  fatality  that  brought  the  pale  servant  always 
in  contrast  with  her.  His  eyes,  turning  from  Aurore 
in  those  moments  when  his  failure  to  find  in  her  face 
what  he  sought  made  life  like  a  bad  dream  to  him, 
were  drawn  by  an  inexplicable  fascination  to  fix 
themselves  on  Barberine's ;  and  there  he  found  what 
he  had  sought  before  elsewhere. 

When  an  illness  declared  itself  in  the  hamlet  and 
several  died  of  it,  Aurore  showed  a  vast  dread  of 
contagion,  and  fortified  herself  against  it  by  many 
precautions, — reasonable  and  easily  forgiven  a  lovely 
woman ;  he  thought  nothing  of  it,  she  did  right. 
But  one  evening  he  found  Barberine,  escaped  from 
her  duties  a  moment,  with  a  dying  child  in  her  arms. 
It  was  Barberine  seen  in  the  distance  crumbling 
bread  to  the  birds,  —  such  a  small,  merciful  thing  to 
do !  —  Barberine  casually  discovered  tending  a  lame 
cur :  things  not  expected  of  a  clidtdaine  ;  it  is  more 
befitting,  perhaps,  if  her  husband  be  poor,  that  she 
be  embroidering  wherewith  to  fitly  adorn  her  lovely 
body  and  do  his  house  honor.  But  yet,  but  yet  — 
He  began  to  wish  uneasily  that  Barberine  were  gone ; 


SERVIROL.  225 

that  she  were  not  standing  always  silent,  pale,  simple, 
behind  Aurore's  chair  at  meals.  It  was  selfish,  un 
just, —  he  could  not  help  it:  he  wished  not  to  see 
her  any  more  with  her  good  face  that  answered  him 
too  readily,  that  seemed  to  make  itself  the  accom 
plice  of  those  unnatural  thoughts  of  his,  —  thoughts, 
was  it  possible  ?  that  arraigned  the  soul's  queen, 
Aurore ! 

These  thoughts,  this  pain,  were  not  uninterrupted. 
The  magician  had  it  in  her  power  when  she  chose 
to  efface  all  feeling  in  him  but  one  of  gratitude  to 
her,  unreserved  love ;  to  lull  to  rest  for  a  time  the 
bitter,  ruffled  waters  in  his  heart. 

He  rode  from  her  quite  happy  one  morning,  bent 
on  a  journey  to  the  city,  where  he  had  business  to 
keep  him  a  day  or  two.  Her  words  on  parting  had 
been  more  than  her  wont  tender.  She  had  so  softly 
said  that  though  she  should  miss  him,  yet  he  must 
take  his  time  and  his  pleasure,  and  give  no  thought 
to  her ;  she  should  be  vexed  if  she  must  think  he 
came  home  the  sooner  for  her. 

He  regretted  nothing  in  his  life.  A  melody  fitted 
itself  to  his  light  heart-beats  as  he  rode,  turning  now 
and  then  in  the  saddle  while  his  house  was  in  sight. 
He  saw  on  his  cuff  the  gleam  of  a  gold  hair  caught 
in  the  embroidery.  The  accident  touched  and  pleased 
him.  He  remembered  the  prayer  of  the  unknown 
that  moonlit  night;  he  discerned  great  good-sense 
in  the  poor  child's  bit  of  folly  shamefacedly  whis 
pered  to  the  good  Mother.  He  was  glad  to  have 
this  gold  hair  of  Aurore's  for  company. 

In  the  city  he  heard  a  report  at  which  his  heart 

15 


226  SERVIROL. 

leaped  within  him.  It  caused  him  to  abridge  his 
affairs,  and  ride  home  with  all  speed. 

He  found  Aurore  and  Andre*  at  table ;  they  had 
not  expected  him  so  soon.  They  wondered  at  his 
flushed  cheek,  his  lighted  eye,  as  he  took  his  seat 
with  them. 

"  Andre* ! "  he  said,  with  ringing  voice,  "  in  the 
city  it  is  rumored  that  the  king  is  free!" 

Andre*  sprang  to  his  feet,  the  stirred  blood  flying 
to  his  face,  and  shouted :  "  If  it  be  true,  if  he  have 
set  foot  on  his  own  land,  then  the  Lord  of  Armies 
be  praised !  Andre*  la  Jouvence  is  himself  again  1 " 

He  could  not  contain  his  excitement:  he  ques 
tioned,  and  could  scarcely  listen  to  answers ;  he  could 
think  of  nothing  but  his  king's  home-coming.  He 
must  ride  to  the  city,  he  declared,  next  day  at  the 
latest,  to  ascertain  what  was  really  known.  Servirol 
might  have  taken  his  information  carelessly. 

"  See  our  friend  ! "  spoke  Servirol,  playfully,  to 
Aurore.  "These  demonstrations  of  unbounded  joy 
are  at  the  thought  of  leaving  his  musty  friends  of 
the  province,  and  their  great  empty  barn  of  a  place. 
Ah,  ma  belle !  I  must  think  you  have  badly  employed 
your  time,  when  I  was  relying  on  you  to  keep  him 
at  our  side  by  inspiring  him  with  a  taste  amounting 
to  passion  —  for  embroidering  flowers  on  silk  ! " 

Aurore  did  not  look  at  him,  but  kept  her  eyes  on 
the  table,  following  a  little  lady-bird  that  had  crept 
from  a  rose  lying  near  her  plate.  It  struck  him  that 
she  might  not  be  feeling  well.  The  muscles  of  her 
cheek  suddenly  rippled  under  the  smooth  skin, 
twitched  as  if  she  had  clinched  her  teeth ;  and  with 


SERVIROL.  227 

a  quick  gesture  and  more  force  than  was  necessary 
for  the  easy  act,  she  crushed  the  scarlet  insect. 

"  Poor  little  bete  a  Bon  Dieu ! "  involuntarily  ex 
claimed  ServiroL 

Aurore  then  looked  at  him  straight,  with  eyes 
even  less  wide  open  than  usual,  —  eyes  that  scarcely 
seemed  to  him  her  own.  He  felt  for  a  second, 
strangely,  as  if  the  coup  de  grdce  to  the  lady-bird 
in  some  vague  way  had  relation  to  himself.  His 
heart  slackened. 

But  no :  why  think  Aurore  ill  or  angry  ?  Some 
women  dislike  insects.  The  blood  showed  itself 
rosily  in  her  cheek  again ;  and  she  took  up  his  own 
light  tone  to  tease  Andrd  about  his  prompt  projected 
desertion  of  themselves.  He  was  almost  afraid  lest 
she  might  wound  him,  so  sharp  seemed  to  him  her 
playful  assumption  of  bitterness. 

His  eyes  at  this  point  sought  the  face  of  Barberine. 
She  stood  behind  the  chair  as  usual.  He  knew  what 
he  should  see,  and  that  it  would  hurt ;  but  always  he 
must  look  and  be  hurt.  His  eyes  opened  large.  It 
was  Barberine's  gown,  her  coif,  but  not  her  face. 
This  girl  had  small,  quick  black  eyes  under  jetty 
brows. 

"  Barberine ! "  faltered  Servirol,  —  "  what  has  be 
come  of  Barberine  ? " 

"  I  put  her  to  the  door,"  replied  Aurore,  with  pro 
found  calm. 

"Barberine  —  put  to  the  door!"  stammered  Ser 
virol.  "For  what  reason,  cMre?" 

"  She  displeased  me  ;  that  is  also  a  reason." 

"  But  —  where  will  she  go  ?     She  has  no  home,  — 


228  SERVIROL. 

she  is  an  orphan !  Oh,  my  dear,  did  she  displease 
you  so  heavily  ?  What  was  it  she  had  done  ? " 

"  I  could  not  suffer  the  sight  of  her.  Furthermore, 
she  was  a  thief ! " 

"  Barberine  —  thief  ?  Oh,  oh !  are  you  convinced 
of  what  you  say  ? " 

"  I  pray  you,  my  friend,"  said  Aurore,  with  a  touch 
of  sharpness,  "  say  no  more !  I  did  as  seemed  to  me 
best.  One  would  think  that  wenches  are  rare  in 
these  parts.  I  have  already,  as  you  see,  more  than 
adequately  replaced  her." 

Servirol  spoke  no  word  further.  He  felt  his 
heart  fail.  He  did  not  listen  any  more  to  what 
was  said,  though  mechanically  trying  to  preserve 
a  look  of  courteous  attention.  Many  thoughts 
swarmed  through  his  brain,  confused ;  gradually 
one  became  very  clear,  and  resolved  itself  into  a 
definite  intention  ;  and  the  excitement  that  filled 
him  calmed  itself. 

"  Aurore,"  he  said,  breaking  into  her  conversation 
without  apology,  "1  saw  to-day,  in  riding  home,  a 
solitary  yellow  lily  by  the  roadside ;  and  it  brought 
back  to  my  mind  that  open  glade,  up  behind  the 
hill,  whither  we  rode  together  one  day  soon  after 
our  marriage.  Have  you  the  place  in  mind  ?  It 
was  paved  with  those  little  lilies.  I  thought  how 
it  must  at  this  very  time  be  as  it  was  that  day,  all 
lilies,  and  had  a  longing  to  revisit  it.  As  Andre*  to 
morrow  leaves  us  to  go  to  the  city,  will  you  accom 
pany  me  there  ?  —  I  thank  you.  And  now,  if  you 
permit  it,  I  leave  you.  A  malaise  has  come  over  me 
that  makes  me  wish  for  the  air." 


SERVIROL.  229 

He  went  out  into  the  twilight,  and  wandered 
aimlessly,  not  as  sometimes  before  trying  to  get 
away  from  himself.  A  definite,  settled  pain  now 
possessed  his  heart ;  he  recognized  that  it  would  not 
be  trodden  down,  escaped  from,  and  put  out  of  sight 
again.  He  mused  on  the  morrow,  and  tried  to  shape 
its  features.  When  great  glows  of  heat  would  invade 
his  heart  and  make  it  ache,  stirred  with  passionate 
love  and  grief  till  he  was  filled  with  a  longing  to 
weep  aloud,  he  would  crush  down  the  rising  storm, 
determined  to  think  temperately  and  resolve  wisely. 
So  he  walked  slowly,  with  head  bent,  hands  clasped 
behind  him. 

He  happened  upon  the  avenue  that  led  to  the 
chapel ;  there  was  a  good  clear  path  to  walk,  where 
he  would  not  be  distracted  from  his  thoughts  by  the 
necessity  of  looking  where  he  put  his  feet. 

He  paced  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  in  the  gloom 
under  the  trees. 

It  was  a  sad  evening,  gray  and  damp.  A  mourn 
ful,  monotonous  noise  came  through  the  air  from  a 
swamp  somewhere,  like  painful  labored  breathing. 
The  leaves  hung  lifelessly.  Now  and  then  a  faint 
light  leaped  with  a  shudder  from  the  horizon,  and 
immediately  was  gone,  —  as  if  a  great  lurid  eye  had 
opened,  glared  a  second,  then  shut. 

Servirol  suddenly  stopped  in  his  pacing.  He  had 
become  aware  of  a  figure  slipping  among  the  trees. 
It  seemed  to  him  trying  to  avoid  attention.  He 
called  to  it.  It  did  not  answer,  but  stopped  at  once, 
and  stood  still  while  he  approached.  He  could  hear 
its  sharp,  uneven  breathing. 


230  SERVIROL. 

"Who  is  it?  "he  asked. 

"It  is  I,  Seigneur,"  said  a  voice  scarcely  above  breath. 

"  Barberine ! " 

"  Yes,  Seigneur.  I  am  going.  I  implore  your  par 
don  for  being  still  found  here.  I  did  not  go  into  the 
house  after  I  was  commanded  to  leave  it.  I  have 
been  among  the  trees.  I  had  a  fancy  for  waiting  till 
I  had  seen  the  Seigneur  ride  home  from  the  city." 

"  Ah,  my  poor  child !  you  thought  I  should  inter 
cede  for  you." 

"  No,  no,  —  I  had  no  hope." 

"  But  it  would  only  be  right  that  I  should  inter 
cede  for  you !  It  is  my  duty  not  to  allow  that  you 
be  falsely  accused  and  unjustly  punished,  —  I  see 
that  so  plainly  !  But  oh,  my  poor  child,  it  is  better 
that  you  go !  My  conscience  rises  against  me  at  this 
moment,  and  calls  me  coward  and  base.  But  yet  I 
feel  —  I  feel  that  I  must  say  it  is  better  that  you  go  ! 
Barberine,  forgive  me  ! " 

"  Oh,  my  master,  let  your  soul  rest.  I  accuse  my 
self,  — I  am  much  to  blame,  —  you  do  not  know.  But 
I  will  atone,  —  atone ;  all  my  guilt  shall  be  washed 
out!"  she  added  in  a  stifled  voice. 

They  were  speaking  in  whispers.  Her  accent  was 
unsteady,  as  if  she  had  been  in  prey  to  some  violent 
excitement  and  scarcely  knew  what  she  said. 

"Guilt?  My  sister,  do  not  exaggerate.  Be  just 
to  yourself;  to  others  I  have  ever  seen  you  mer 
ciful.  I  know  you  are  good,  good,  good.  Where 
shall  you  go  ? " 

"  I  know  not.     But  yes,  —  home." 

"  To  the  convent,  Barberine  ?  " 


SERVIUOL.  231 

"  No,  no,  —  to  my  mother." 

"  Your  mother  ?  But  are  you  not  an  orphan, 
Barberine,  left  on  the  convent  steps  and  brought 
up  among  the  good  sisters  with  the  orphans  ? " 

"  That  is  true.  I  said  mother ! "  replied  Barberine, 
with  a  jerky,  suffocated  laugh.  He  had  never  heard 
her  laugh  before.  "  I  never  knew  my  mother ;  yet 
I  find  natural  to  call  mother  that  which  will  be  good 
to  us,  more  good  than  anything  has  ever  been." 

"  You  have  friends,  then  ?  " 

"Yes,  friends,  who  will  receive  me  with  open 
arms." 

"  You  are  going  to  your  friends  ?     Where  ? " 

"  Oh,  not  far." 

"  Wait  for  me  but  a  moment,  Barberine,  and  I  will 
return  with  money  for  your  voyage  and  your  needs. 
And  old  Juste  shall  see  you  on  your  way." 

She  caught  at  his  cloak  to  stop  him.  "  Oh,  no  ! " 
she  murmured  anxiously,  "  I  could  not  take  —  I  want 
nothing  —  I  shall  not  need !  The  journey  is  short." 

"  But  will  you  let  rne  know  that  you  have  arrived 
safely,  —  that  you  do  well  ? " 

She  hesitated,  then  laughed  again,  a  little  wildly  : 
"Ah,  if  I  could  send  a  message  back !  I  shall  soon 
know  if  it  be  possible.  I  promise  that  I  will  try. 
But  it  may  not  be  what  you  think.  You  may  see  a 
shut  rose  open  at  you  suddenly  like  a  red  human 
mouth,  and  speak.  You  may  look  at  your  hound,  and 
find  yourself  thinking,  '  Truly,  it  has  a  woman's  eyes.' 
God  !  what  am  I  saying  ?  I  do  not  know,  myself.  I 
have  cried  so  much  since  yesterday  that  my  head  is 
light." 


232  SERVIROL. 

"My  poor  girl,  you  are  overwrought.  Take 
patience,  my  poor  girl.  All  will  be  well  with 
you.  Night  and  morning  I  will  think  of  you  ear 
nestly  when  I  pray,  and  implore  angels  to  guard 
you." 

"  You  will  pray  for  me,  —  you !  I  bless  you,  and 
conjure  you,  master,  not  to  forget  Pray  that  my 
sins  be  forgiven." 

"  And  you,  my  sister,"  said  Servirol,  eagerly,  "  pray 
the  same  for  me.  I  feel  sinful  enough,  —  weak  ; 
yet  I  cannot,  cannot  but  repeat,  '  It  is  better  that 
you  go ! " 

There  was  a  silence.  They  stood  in  the  almost 
darkness.  He  thought  that  she  was  going.  Suddenly 
she  said  pointlessly,  in  a  colorless  tone,  as  one  who 
speaks  in  sleep  :  "  The  day  of  your  marriage,  —  you 
remember  ? " 

"Yes!" 

"  It  was  in  the  little  church.  The  orphans  in 
•white  frocks  and  veils  scattered  flowers  before  the 
bridal  couple  as  they  came  to  the  altar.  One  girl 
dropped  a  little  rose.  The  bridegroom  was  taking 
no  heed ;  he  set  his  foot  on  it" 

"What  is  this?" 

"  What  was  I  saying  ?  Ah,  something  that  came 
back  to  my  mind.  You  crushed  it  underfoot  without 
knowing.  I  remember  well.  It  was  my  first  glimpse 
of  the  world,  and  every  little  feature  of  it  is  painted 
fiery  bright  on  my  brain." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Servirol,  wonderingly,  "  that  I 
trod  on  a  rose." 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?     I  do  not  know  what  I 


SERVIROL.  233 

have  been  saying.  Let  me  go  before  uttering  folly. 
Adieu,  mon  Seigneur  —  " 

"Adieu,  Barberine.  God  go  with  you,  give  you 
peace  I " 

"  God  I — God ! "  She  repeated  the  name  softly,  like 
a  syllable  without  meaning.  "  Ah,  well,  my  head  is  too 
hot  now  —  but  it  will  cool.  Adieu,  mou  Seigneur ! " 

"  Adieu,  my  sister !  God  go  with  you ! "  he  said 
again.  He  impulsively  took  her  head  in  his  hands, 
kissed  her  forehead,  and  let  her  go. 

She  took  a  step  or  two  uncertainly.  He  heard  her 
gather  breath  in  a  convulsive  sob,  and  she  had  fled 
among  the  trees. 

Early,  in  the  coolness  of  the  day,  set  forth  Servirol 
and  Aurore.  She  was  mounted  on  a  palfrey  whose 
swinging  trappings  brushed  the  tops  of  the  wild 
grasses  along  the  climbing  road.  He  walked  beside 
her,  sometimes  supporting  her  in  the  saddle  with  his 
encircling  arm,  sometimes  leading  the  beast,  for 
the  path  was  at  best  rough  and  undefined.  Often 
there  was  no  path;  then  Servirol  could  only  find 
the  way  by  stopping  and  taking  account  of  the 
landscape. 

The  man  and  his  wife  did  not  speak  much;  the 
exertion  of  climbing  excused  him  from  making  more 
than  occasional  efforts  at  an  exchange  of  thoughts; 
and  she,  sitting  easily  in  her  saddle,  with  her  hand 
that  held  the  reins  resting  idly  on  her  knee,  began 
singing  softly  an  interminable  ditty,  —  a  legend  with 
verse  after  verse  on  the  adventures  of  a  noble 
dragon-slayer. 


234  SERVIROL. 

His  heart  was  veiy  still;  it  was  strange  to  bimself 
that  it  should  be  so  very  still. 

It  was  a  fair  day,  not  cloudless ;  but  the  drifting 
clouds,  like  thin  floating  veils  over  the  faces  of  ladies, 
did  not  deter  from  the  sky's  beauty.  The  sun  was 
not  importunately  hot, — just  so  hot  as  to  draw  sweet 
smells  from  the  mountain  herbs  crushed  by  the  small 
hoofs  of  the  palfrey,  and  the  drops  of  resin  on  the 
pines  they  passed  among.  There  was  in  the  air  a 
long  acute  tremor  of  insect  voices. 

While  she  sang,  he  turned  back  now  and  then  and 
looked  at  her. 

Her  face  was  like  a  delicate  rose  in  shadow ;  the 
upcast  reflection  of  the  sun  under  the  brim  of  her 
hat  sweetly  lighted  it,  and  warmed  to  a  deeper  red 
her  mouth  listlessly  uttering  the  foolish  old  words. 
She  looked  the  same  as  on  that  day — it  seemed  a 
long  time  ago  —  when  they  had  come  over  this  road 
together  before,  just  the  same. 

His  heart  lost  something  of  its  torpor  every  time 
he  turned  back  and  watched  her,  listening  to  her 
singing.  She  looked  just  the  same,  —  nay,  she  was 
the  same  !  He  declared  to  himself  that  she  was  the 
same,  and  his  faith  rose  phoenix-like  again  over  its 
own  wreck. 

Then  he  began  to  talk  to  her  in  his  old  vein,  abun 
dantly,  excitedly,  of  many  things,  —  commenting  on 
all  they  passed,  speaking  from  a  deep  love  of  nature,  at 
once  spiritual  and  sensuous,  and  a  light  happy  fancy. 

She  replied  readily ;  but  presently  started  another 
ditty,  longer  than  the  one  before,  on  the  miracles  of 
the  six  days,  —  rude  lines,  fit  to  impress  themselves 


SEEVIROL.  235 

easily  on  the  memories  of  children,  describing  the 
making  of  light,  of  plants  and  beasts,  of  man  and 
woman ;  verse  evenly  divided  from  verse  by  a  quaint, 
elaborate,  senseless  refrain.  It  sounded  to  him  pretty 
from  her  mouth,  tender,  womanly.  He  could  think 
of  her  humming  it  so,  rocking  a  cradle.  There  was 
such  patience,  it  seemed  to  him,  in  that  song,  —  the 
story  with  its  vivid,  diverting  representation  of  the 
Ion  Dieu  making  ruby-edged  frills  for  the  daisies  and 
rainbow  necklets  for  the  turtle-doves  and  silver  armor 
for  the  fishes,  to  please  the  little  one  if  he  would  not 
sleep ;  then  the  cooed  empty  refrain  to  lull  the  wake 
ful  little  brain,  and  make  the  eyes  shut;  but  if  it 
failed,  then  another  picture  to  charm  the  child's 
vigil,  then  another  weary  little  attempt  to  impose  on 
him  sleep.  He  was  touched  to  hear  her  sing  it,  and 
listened  to  every  word,  caressing  the  picture  it  built 
up  before  him. 

At  last  they  had  reached  the  spot  he  sought.  It 
was  a  sheltered  fold  in  the  hills,  a  small  cup-like 
hollow.  The  wind  brushed  around  it,  and  discour 
aged  the  grass  above  its  rim ;  but  its  breath  was 
spent  before  it  could  sweep  down  into  it.  There  the 
grass  was  thick  and  soft,  and  at  this  season  made 
beautiful  by  myriad  tiptoeing  lilies.  One  part  of  it 
was  already  in  shadow.  Servirol  helped  the  lady  to 
dismount,  found  her  the  pleasantest  spot  to  rest,  then 
eased  the  palfrey,  and  let  it  loose  to  feed.  He  spread 
on  the  grass  by  his  lady  food  and  wine  that  he  had 
taken  from  the  saddle-bag,  and  sat  beside  her,  —  glad 
of  the  coolness,  the  repose,  the  beauty  around  them 
with  its  tender  association. 


236  SERVIROL. 

While  they  ate  he  spoke  with  a  gentle  emotion  of 
that  last  time;  he  rehearsed  many  things  that  had 
happened  to  them  since  their  marriage,  —  common 
they  might  have  seemed  to  others,  but  to  him  each 
had  its  significance,  its  price. 

They  spent  what  was  to  him  a  sweet  hour. 

Then,  as  Aurore  expressed  a  desire  to  sleep,  he 
spread  his  mantle  for  her  where  the  grass  was  softest, 
and  saw  her  lain  down  in  slumber,  the  bright  braids 
of  her  hair  uncovered  and  let  fall,  her  gown  opened 
at  the  throat. 

Himself  he  did  not  sleep,  but  lay  not  far  with  his 
head  on  his  bended  arm,  his  face  turned  toward  her, 
a  long  light  branch  in  his  hand  to  wave  over  her  at 
need,  waiting  till  she  should  wake  to  speak  at  last  of 
what  had  been  weighing  on  his  heart 

He  lost  himself  in  vague  dreaming. 

But  how  long  she  slept !  It  seemed  to  him  hours 
since  she  had  closed  her  eyes.  He  could  not  calcu 
late  time  by  his  reverie ;  but  the  appearance  of  the 
sky  spoke  of  a  day  already  on  the  decline.  They 
must  descend  the  hill  while  the  light  was  sufficient, 
the  more  that  a  sadness  was  invading  the  sky,  clouds 
seemed  gathering  for  storm. 

He  must  speak  now.  The  thought  made  his  heart 
beat  harder.  He  looked  at  her  still  a  little  while 
in  her  sleep.  One  of  her  hands  was  stretched  out 
through  the  grass,  with  the  sea-shell  palm  upward, 
—  such  a  womanish,  small  hand !  And  it  belonged 
to  him ;  it  wore  the  ring  with  the  words  engraved 
inside  that  made  her  his.  He  looked  for  the  gleam 
of  the  gold,  and  was  a  little  hurt  at  not  seeing  it;  a 


SERVIROL.  237 

wife  should  not  put  off  such  a  ring.  But  she  would 
have  no  doubt  a  trifling  reason  to  give.  He  ap 
proached  her  noiselessly  over  the  grass  without 
rising,  took  her  hand  between  his,  and  softly,  re 
peatedly  kissed  it. 

She  half  opened  her  eyes.  He  had  meant  to  speak 
at  once ;  but  now  he  did  not  know  how  to  do  it.  He 
felt  clumsy  and  foolish;  he  sought  time,  and  took 
refuge  in  a  commonplace. 

"  Where  is  the  little  ring  I  gave  you,  Aurore  ? " 

She  made  the  pouting  face  that  meant  she  did  not 
know. 

"  I  took  it  off'  because  it  had  grown  small,  and 
fretted  me.  Now  I  cannot  find  it  again.  I  assure 
you  I  did  not  lose  it.  But  you  will  understand, 
when  one  has  always  a  thief  beside  one  —  " 

He  dropped  her  hand  then,  and  looked  at  her  with 
a  troubled,  sorrowful  face.  He  could  speak  now. 

"  Barberine  was  not  a  thief,"  he  said  ;  "  you  can 
not  think  it.  O  Aurore,  0  my  dear  soul ! "  he  cried, 
stretching  as  he  knelt  his  hands  toward  her  with  a 
gesture  of  yearning  deprecation,  his  face  full  of  the 
utmost  tenderness  for  her,  a  desire  while  hurting 
not  to  hurt,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  grieve  you.  But,  O 
Aurore,  O  my  dear  soul,  are  you  not  afraid  that 
you  sometimes  think  too  little  ?  I  know  how  deeply 
sweet  you  are.  I  feel  assured  that  you  would  always 
wish  to  be  kind.  Yet  sometimes  I  think  without 
knowing  it  you  give  pain.  Sometimes  you  make 
suffer  where  you  need  not,  and  sometimes  where 
you  might  give  comfort,  you  forget,  dear,  —  you  for 
get.  You  are  young,  and  so  beautiful,  and  so 


238  SERVIROL. 

blessed  with  every  charming  gift,  —  there  were  a 
peculiar  grace,  a  more  than  common  praise  attached 
to  your  being  generous  to  those  whom  Heaven  one 
knows  not  wherefore  has  made  miserable.  You  are 
so  lovely  that  if  you  would  stop  to  say  a  good  word 
to  the  cripple  at  the  church-door  he  must  form  a 
conception  of  what  angels  in  Paradise  are,  and  it 
would  give  him  courage  to  hobble  on  a  little  farther 
in  life.  Ah,  my  dear  soul,"  he  poured  forth  from 
his  full  heart,  "  we  are  God's  children  all,  and  there 
is  not  great  and  small  with  him ;  and  I  know  he 
is  grieved  when  a  little,  harmless,  happy  life  is  put 
out  wantonly,  —  yes,  dear,  even  a  bete  &  bon  Dieu's. 
You  cannot  think  how  it  hurt  me  to  see  you  kill 
that  pretty  thing  ! " 

He  stopped  a  moment.  Aurore  lay  with  her  face 
away  from  him,  turned  straight  to  the  skies,  per 
fectly  composed,  as  if  she  neither  saw  nor  heard. 

"  You  are  young  now,"  Servirol  pursued  fer 
vently,  "  and  so  lovely  !  And  I  so  love  you,  —  so 
love  you,  that  I  tremble  if  your  hand  but  brushes 
me,  that  I  would  suffer  anything  to  save  you  a 
little,  little  suffering.  You  have  a  face  like  a  flower, 
and  hair  like  gold ;  but  your  face  will  fade,  dearest 
one,  your  hair  will  be  gray.  I  will  love  you  then 
as  now.  But  if  you  have  not  done  good,  —  if  there 
is  no  memory  of  merciful  actions  to  make  a  lasting 
springtime  in  your  heart,  if  you  cannot  hope  that 
the  poor  world  is  ever  so  little  less  to  be  pitied 
for  your  passing  through  it,  —  in  those  wintry  days 
when  you  will  have  long  leisure  to  think  (for  the 
time  of  pleasures  and  works  will  be  past)  it  will 


SEEVIROL.  239 

surely  come  to  you  to  understand  a  little  tha 
meaning  of  life :  angels  have  large  opportunity  of 
whispering  to  those  near  to  die !  It  will  come  to 
you  to  think,  '  If  only  I  could  have  it  over  again,  — 
have  a  little  time  and  strength  to  do  the  things 
I  see  now  we  were  meant  to  do ;  to  succor,  to 
console,  to  teach,  to  be  good,  in  fine  ! '  Oh,  save 
yourself  that  bitter  moment,  my  Aurore  !  My  heart 
breaks  for  you.  Oh,  my  beloved  one,  be  good  now, 
be  good,  be  good  ! " 

She  lay  still  as  before,  with  a  face  empty  of  all 
expression,  turned  up  to  the  sky,  unseeing,  un- 
hearing. 

In  the  earnestness  of  his  last  words  he  had  sud 
denly  laid  hold  of  her  arm  and  shaken  it  to  make  her 
respond.  She  started  at  his  touch  as  if  a  serpent 
had  stung  her.  She  writhed  to  a  sitting  posture,  and 
thrust  toward  him  suddenly  her  set  face,  —  all  the 
dregs  of  her  soul  risen  to  her  eyes.  She  stared  at 
him  fixedly  a  second ;  then,  unable  further  to  repress 
herself,  through  her  shut  teeth  spat  at  him  the  word, 
"Monk!" 

Servirol  had  let  go  her  arm  and  drawn  back  as  if 
struck,  turning  mortally  pale.  He  could  not  take  his 
eyes  from  hers ;  he  regarded  her  breathlessly,  and  a 
dark  fire  dried  the  moisture  that  had  come  into  his 
eyes  as  he  conjured  her  to  be  good,  to  be  good ! 
Then  he  heard  a  strange,  hard,  intense  voice  say,  — 
it  did  not  seem  to  him  as  if  he  himself  were  speaking, 
but  something  within  him  that  he  could  not  prevent 
or  control :  "  I  know  you  well  enough,  Aurore  ;  I 
only  pretend  to  myself  and  to  others.  You  have  a 


240  SERVIKOL. 

heart  of  stone,  —  nothing  can  touch  it ;  and  I  have 
long  known  it,  almost  from  the  first.  You  are  bad. 
You  never  loved  me.  You  married  me  I  know  not 
why,  —  but  yes,  I  do.  For  a  number  of  reasons,  not 
over-noble.  I  built  up  my  happiness  out  of  my  own 
fancy,  —  I  have  an  accursed  powerful  fancy.  Woman, 
don't  move  ! "  he  heard  the  voice  rave  with  an  in 
crease  of  fierceness.  "  Never  have  I  seen  you  do  one 
little  thing  that  denoted  a  heart.  I  have  only  seen 
you  in  various  ways  embroider  flowers  for  the  adorn 
ment  of  your  beautiful  person.  Beautiful,  —  be  satis 
fied,  it  is  beautiful,  and  its  beauty  has  enslaved  me. 
It  deserves  that  with  these  two  hands  I  should  for 
ever  spoil  it ! " 

He  could  not  but  groan  aloud  at  the  show  of  un 
feigned  terror  with  which  she  hurried  to  her  feet. 
He  covered  his  face  with  trembling  hands.  "  For 
God's  sake,"  he  gasped,  "  don't  be  afraid  of  me.  You 
know  that  I  could  never  hurt  a  hair  of  your  head. 
Only,  I  have  long  been  going  mad,  and  now  it  has 
come  completely  upon  me.  Aurore,  Aurore,  my  poor 
girl,  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  me.  Come,  we  will 
go  home." 

He  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  hollow,  and  whistled 
for  the  palfrey.  It  came  at  his  call.  In  silence  and 
with  strange  composure  he  put  on  its  trappings,  and 
helped  the  lady  on  to  its  back  ;  then  seized  it  by  the 
bridle  and  led  it  down  the  homeward  way. 

The  sky  had  become  overcast ;  a  rising  storm-wind 
bent  the  grasses  all  one  way.  They  said  not  one 
word  in  all  the  journey.  He  never  looked  back. 
Three  or  four  times  he,  the  steady-footed,  stumbled 


SERVIROL.  241 

and  fell.  He  got  to  his  feet  again  promptly,  rub 
bing  his  forehead,  as  if  the  cause  of  his  fall  had 
been  there.  The  darkness  had  almost  closed  in 
when  they  reached  home. 

Andre"  met  them  with  joyful  words. 

"  It  is  true  !  He  is  in  his  own  land  again.  When 
he  had  come  to  the  frontier  where  the  exchange  was 
made,  he  leaped  upon  an  arabian  and  galloped  break 
neck,  —  the  gallant  king  !  —  till  he  reached  the  city 
where  his  noble  mother  awaited  him.  Ah,  my  good 
Etienne,  I  cannot  wait.  You  will  understand.  I 
must  go  at  once.  I  must  go  to-night,  and  gallop 
break-neck  as  he  did  until  I  have  reached  him. 
What  will  you  have,  my  good  Etienne,  for  the  kindly 
hospitality  you  have  afforded  me  ?  Is  it  gold,  hon 
ors,  a  place  at  court  ?  Speak  now,  friend,  for  you 
are  like  to  get  what  you  ask  for." 

"Nay,"  said  Servirol,  with  a  pale  simulation  of  a 
smile,  "  I  am  repaid  already  by  your  trusty  friend 
ship.  Farewell,  Andre.  God  accompany  you !  I  do 
not  urge  your  staying  further,  for  I  appreciate  the 
strength  of  your  desire  to  go.  Again,  God  be  with 
you !  I  beg  you  will  ever  call  our  house  your  own, 
and  I  salute  you  now.  Forgive  a  sudden  distemper 
that  makes  me  unfit  for  anything  but  solitude  and 
silence." 

His  farewell  greetings  to  Andrd  over,  he  got  to  his 
chamber,  small  and  simple  as  a  cell.  He  bolted  the 
door ;  he  dropped  into  his  chair,  and  with  his  elbows 
on  the  table  and  his  temples  between  his  fists,  sat 
staring  at  the  little  flame  of  the  lamp. 

He   did   not   reflect ;   he   felt    thoughts    seething 

16 


242  SERVIROL. 

through  his  brain,  with  no  power  to  control  and 
order  them,  and  no  definite  attempt  at  such  a  thing. 

The  night  wore  on,  as  he  sat  with  this  burning, 
confused  head. 

The  house  was  very  still;  but,  outside,  the  wind 
now  and  then  caine  like  a  giant  night-bird  beat 
ing  its  wings  against  the  windows,  and  hustling  off 
lamely  with  a  hoarse  complaint  that  it  had  hurt 
itself. 

And  the  silent  house  presently  seemed  to  its 
master  to  have  become  alive  with  whispers,  —  fine 
hissing  sounds,  stifled  confessions  of  secrets,  insults 
unspeakable  just  suggested  in  a  soft,  unseizable  sibi- 
lation.  And  when  he  lent  ear  with  a  sick,  hammer 
ing  heart,  the  dusk  beyond  the  little  circle  of  light 
from  his  lamp  seemed  to  him  full  of  fugitive  shapes 
that  crumbled,  slunk  away  when  he  looked  fixedly, 
and  let  the  familiar  walls  be  seen  through  them,  — 
round  eyes,  not  human,  but  wheel  within  wheel  of 
glow-worm  fire,  darting  tongues  and  whisking  dra 
peries  of  a  sombre  red.  Ah,  it  was  only  the  spangled 
blood  in  his  eyes  !  He  pressed  his  hands  over  them ; 
but  at  once  the  air  seemed  so  thick  with  these  pres 
ences  that  it  could  not  be  breathed.  He  staggered 
to  his  feet,  suffocated.  To  Aurore  !  He  must  get  to 
Aurore,  —  forgive,  and  implore  forgiveness.  It  was 
impossible  to  live  if  they  were  not  friends. 

He  reached  her  door.  From  the  shadow  of  the 
curtain,  as  he  was  pushing  it  aside,  stepped  Durande, 
the  new  maid,  with  the  eyes  like  beads  glittering 
through  their  inky  loop-holes.  She  stood  in  his 
way. 


SERVIROL.  243 

He  motioned  her  aside ;  but  she  remained  in  her 
place  and  said,  "  My  mistress  has  begged  that  for  an 
hour  she  be  not  disturbed." 

He  looked  at  her;  in  that  moment  he  hated  her 
face,  —  it  seemed  to  him  evil,  one  with  the  voices 
and  shadows  of  this  God-forgotten  night.  Without 
speaking  he  withdrew,  and  tried  to  arm  himself  with 
patience  till  the  hour  should  have  passed. 

Now  he  paced  his  room  unceasingly,  only  stopping 
to  see  how  far  the  sands  had  run.  He  felt  desper 
ately  ill  and  shaken,  —  not  from  the  effect  of  that 
day  alone ;  long  a  sorrow  had  been  gnawing  at  his 
heart,  and  he  had  striven  to  deal  with  it  by  secret 
vigil  and  fast,  and  his  body  was  worn  and  unfitted 
for  strain. 

He  was  forced  at  last  to  sit ;  he  listened  intently 
then  for  the  sounds  of  the  storm,  to  keep  himself 
from  becoming  a  prey  to  the  delusions  of  before. 
The  wind  was  now  like  an  enemy  charging  the 
house.  It  gathered  itself  together  in  the  distance, 
and  came  on,  gaining  in  speed  and  violence  till  it 
battered  the  walls,  made  them  groan,  shake,  —  rock, 
it  almost  seemed,  —  then  it  dropped,  baffled,  and 
drew  itself  off  to  repeat  the  assault.  At  one  moment 
its  approach  sounded  so  like  a  cavalry  charge  that 
Servirol  involuntarily  started  to  his  feet.  Sounds  of 
hoofs  ?  Folly !  But,  no,  —  through  the  wind  as  he 
listened  came  certainly  the  sound  of  galloping.  Ah, 
yes,  —  La  Jouvence  starting  on  his  way  to  the  king. 
A  good  journey  to  him  ! 

When  the  hour  had  nearly  passed,  Servirol  went 
again  to  his  wife's  door.  Durande  stood  there  still. 


244  SERVIROL. 

"  Let  me  pass  ! "  he  ordered. 

"  If  the  Seigneur  please,"  she  said  with  a  shrug 
of  her  shoulders  ;  she  looked  pale  in  the  draught- 
tormented  light.  "  But  my  mistress  is  not  within  ; 
she  went  forth  to  take  a  little  air  near  an  hour 
ago." 

"  Out  of  doors  —  in  this  weather ! "  faltered  Servi- 
rol,  staring  stupidly  at  the  maid's  face,  the  expression 
of  which  now  started  him  on  a  strange  track  of 
thinking. 

Then  he  remembered  the  sound  of  galloping  horses, 
and  suddenly,  as  by  a  great  flash  of  hell-light,  came 
back  to  his  mind  a  thousand  things,  —  things  seen 
only  with  the  superficial  eye  and  never  before  this 
instant  questioned,  interpreted. 

He  choked,  ineffectually  struggling  for  the  words 
of  a  curse,  his  uplifted  arm  convulsively  laboring 
the  air  in  the  direction  they  must  have  taken.  Du- 
rande  saw  his  terrible  face  turn  black ;  then  some 
thing  strange  seemed  to  have  happened  in  his  head. 
He  dropped  heavily  on  to  the  ground,  and  lay  like 
dead. 

The  little  flame  of  the  lamp  sputtered  a  moment 
in  the  spilt  oil,  and  showed  the  servant  fleeing  down 
the  corridor.  It  went  out,  and  an  irrepressible  shriek 
for  help  tore  the  darkness. 

Another  season  possessed  the  earth,  —  the  sad, 
dead  season :  no  flowers,  no  birds,  little  of  beauty 
save  in  the  sallow  sunset  lingering  behind  the  dark 
network  of  the  trees. 

In  the  quiet  monastery,  whither  Servirol  had  been 


SERVIROL.  245 

taken  for  skilful  nursing,  Father  Euphrasius  in  these 
days  studying  the  face  of  his  patient  felt  assured  that 
he  saw  intelligence  returning  to  the  great  hollow  eyes 
continually  fixed  upon  the  ceiling. 

One  day,  himself  unseen,  he  saw  tears  overcloud 
ing  them.  Then  he  spoke  softly  as  he  bent  over 
Servirol's  bed  and  took  his  hand, — 

"  How  is  it  with  thee,  my  son  ? " 

"  Well,  —  well,  father  !  "  replied  Servirol,  in  the 
echo  of  his  old  voice,  and  with  the  shadow  of  his  old 
courteous  manner  and  smile.  "Your  affectionate 
care  has  prevailed.  It  were  ungracious  to  wish  that 
you  had  been  less  successful." 

He  lay  still  awhile,  with  his  upturned  face  like  a 
worn  white  wedge  between  the  scattered  inky  strands 
of  his  hair ;  then  in  his  faint,  gentle  voice  he  said  :  "  I 
can  think  now,  I  can  think  clearly ;  but  it  is  strange 
to  myself  how  little  I  suffer.  Perhaps  it  was  coming 
back  to  myself  in  my  old  cell,  and  seeing  about  me 
the  dear  well-known  faces  that  have  no  association 
with  pain;  but  the  strange  year  that  I  spent  away 
from  these  walls  seems  almost  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
—  as  if  it  were  a  dream,  and  the  impression  of  it 
on  the  way  to  fading.  No,  1  do  not  suffer,  I  cannot 
suffer,  —  I  think  I  shall  never  feel  again.  I  —  I  only 
wish  that  the  world  were  green ! "  he  added  with  a 
touch  of  a  sick  man's  querulousness.  "I  want  the 
trees  to  have  leaves  ! " 

And  Father  Euphrasius  was  prompted  not  to  tell 
him  yet,  since  he  was  not  suffering. 

But  as  his  strength  came  back  to  him,  Servirol's 
heart  was  evidently  less  at  rest.  He  said  no  more 


246  SEEVIKOL. 

than  before ;  but  his  face,  still  staring  up  at  the  ceil 
ing,  reflected  the  workings  of  a  tormented  iniiid. 
Then  one  day  again  Father  Euphrasius  touched  his 
hand  and  said  to  him,  "  My  son,  how  is  it  with  thee  ? 
Unburden  thy  heart  to  me  ! " 

"  My  father,"  broke  forth  Servirol,  shaken  with  a 
cruel  emotion,  "  what  canst  thou  of  the  quiet,  holy 
experiences  have  to  say  to  a  man  who  has  found 
friendship  past  conception  hollow,  love  past  be 
lieving  false  ?  What  consolation  is  there  to  offer 
such  a  man  ?  Oh,  spend  not  reasonable,  well-calcu 
lated,  soothing  words  on  me,  my  good,  good  father,  — 
the  occasion  for  thy  holy  office  is  not  now.  For  the 
hatred,  the  thirst  for  blood  that  made  me  mad  are 
past  Yes,  I  could  hear  myself  raving  out  aloud  in 
the  frenzied  period  of  my  illness.  Then  my  soul 
was  torn  with  all  sinful  passions ;  but  now  I  swear 
I  feel  sorrow  ou^ly,  —  oh,  sorrow,  sorrow,  never-end 
ing  sorrow  !  And  while  my  heart  breaks,"  he  added 
bitterly,  humanly,  "she  is  smiling  perhaps  at  the 
court  of  the  king ! " 

"  At  the  court  of  the  King ! "  repeated  Father 
Euphrasius,  solemnly. 

Servirol  turned  on  him  his  great  dull  eyes.  The 
old  man's  voice  shook. 

"  My  son,  my  son,  thrust  not  back  on  me  my  ten 
ders  of  comfort,  for  I  have  a  helpful  message  indeed. 
Thy  wife,  I  tell  thee  truly,  did  not  forsake  thee. 
When  thou  thoughtst  her  flying  in  guilt,  disaster 
had  overtaken  her." 

And  while  Servirol  listened  with  breathless  open 
lips,  he  pursued :  "  Take  courage  to  hear,  and  God 


SERVIROL.  247 

inspire  me !  Thy  wife  is  dead,  —  has  been  num 
bered  with  the  dead  these  long,  long  weeks.  One 
will  never  know  how  it  happened.  Old  Modeste, 
the  crone,  seeking  herbs  that  grow  by  water,  dis 
covered  in  the  dark  tarn  that  lies  behind  the  chapel 
not  far  from  thy  house  —  We  knew  her  by  these 
tokens,  —  the  little  gold  ring  with  the  words  inside, 
and  the  great  gold  hair." 

And  he  drew  from  his  bosom  and  laid  softly  on 
the  coverlet  beside  the  widower  a  little  shining  hoop, 
and  a  handful  of  shining  hair. 

"  Dead !  —  only  dead  ! "  thought  Servirol,  finding  in 
that  thought  after  the  first  horror  of  it  the  courage  to 
live. 

Dead  loving  him,  too ;  for  she  had  placed  on  her 
hand  again  the  ring  carelessly  put  off,  and  had  put 
off  the  flowered  gown  he  in  his  anger  cast  reproach 
upon,  to  don  a  plain  dark  garb,  they  told  him,  —  the 
garb  it  must  be  he  had  first  seen  and  loved  her  in 
when  she  came  to  the  church  in  fulfilment  of  her 
vow.  He  had  spoken  to  her  rash,  hard  words,  and 
to  her  in  her  suffering,  as  to  him,  the  house  that 
night  had  seemed  oppressive.  She  had  but  gone 
forth  for  a  little  air,  as  Durande  had  said,  and  had 
met  death.  Had  she  sought  it,  in  her  despair  at  his 
understanding  her  so  ill,  or  in  a  moment  of  rashly 
morbid  penitence  ?  All  his  life  then  given  to  atone 
ment,  spent  good-doing  in  her  name,  would  be  too 
little.  He  prostrated  himself  to  her  memory,  he 
made  her  his  saint ;  and  gradually  peace  crept 
back  into  his  heart,  and  the  little  year  of  his 


248  SERVIROL. 

double    life  found   again  its   soft,   shining,   perfect 
colors. 

And  Barberine  taken  from  the  black  water  rested 
in  the  toinb  of  the  Servirols.  At  her  side  one  day  he 
should  be  laid  for  his  long  sleep,  with  the  lock  of  her 
hair  on  his  heart. 


SHEPHEEDS. 


SHEPHERDS. 

was  once  a  king's  sou,  but  at  his  father's 
-1-  death  he  did  not  himself  become  a  king.  The 
land  was  filled  with  commotion ;  and  one  black  night 
he  was  urged  by  friends  who  had  remained  faithful 
to  him  in  a  time  of  discord  and  rebellion,  to  mount 
horse  and  fly  for  his  life. 

He  spent  long  years  in  exile  ;  there  he  grew  to  be 
a  man. 

From  time  to  time  came  to  him  in  the  solitary 
place  among  the  hills  where  he  lived  in  retirement 
given  up  to  quiet  studies,  a  messenger  bringing  news 
of  his  kingdom,  and  keeping  him  informed  of  the 
movements  of  his  adherents,  who  had  never  aban 
doned  the  hope  of  setting  him  on  the  throne. 

The  messenger  returning  from  the  young  prince 
was  always  narrowly  questioned  by  those  who  sent 
him  concerning  every  particular  relating  to  the 
noble  exile.  What  the  grave  intriguers  gathered 
from  his  answers  was  sufficiently  depressing  to  their 
hopes.  The  prince  appeared  contented  with  his  ob 
scure  condition.  He  was  found  ever  with  a  book 
in  his  hand,  or  known  to  be  rambling  over  the 
hills  without  so  much  as  the  excuse  of  sport.  He 
was  dreamy  and  sweet-tempered ;  not  apparently 


252  SHEPHERDS. 

in  any  degree  adventurous,  ambitious,  or  even  de 
finitely  resentful  of  the  fact  that  another  held  sway 
in  his  place. 

Therefore  it  seemed  advisable  to  those  wise  poli 
ticians  that  something  should  be  done  to  rouse  this 
unpromising  nursling  of  royalty  before  he  became 
fixed  in  his  lamentable  indifference  to  greatness. 

So,  before  the  good  moment  had  really  arrived  he 
was  sent  for  and  brought  back  into  his  own  country 
to  head  the  war  against  the  usurping  powers. 

He  proved  himself  able  and  brave  beyond  all  ex 
pectation.  But  the  good  moment,  as  I  said,  had  not 
arrived ;  every  scheme  was  immature ;  defeat  followed 
upon  defeat  to  the  arms  of  the  loyal ;  to  fly  and  wait 
still  longer  seemed  the  only  thing  left  their  leader  to 
do.  But  flight  delayed  until  the  last  necessity  had 
become  more  than  difficult. 

The  prince,  with  a  price  on  his  head,  and  in  a 
region  continually  scoured  by  the  enemy  in  search 
of  him,  remained  safe  within  easy  reach  of  those 
who  required  his  blood,  almost  at  the  door  of  his 
great  foe.  For  months  he  lived  as  a  shepherd 
among  shepherds,  who  never  suspected  that  they 
were  harboring  a  king. 

Now  and  then  came  to  him  at  fall  of  day  a 
shepherd  friend,  ostensibly  bringing  him  news  of 
his  home  over  the  hills ;  and  one  day  hinting 
homesickness,  he  took  his  leave  and  returned  with 
his  old  companion  to  their  former  haunts,  and  that 
was  the  end  of  his  relations  with  the  shepherds. 

Then  again  blazed  civil  war.  But  the  days  now 
were  ripe ;  the  good  moment  had  come.  Soon,  though 


SHEPHERDS.  253 

after  much  desperate  warfare,  the  country  was  re 
duced  to  order,  the  rightful  heir  was  placed  on  the 
throne;  it  was  the  turn  of  the  traitor  to  hide  his 
endangered  head. 

Peace  smiled.  The  blackened  battle-fields  were 
filled  with  corn.  Upon  the  ruins  of  burned  villages 
rose  other  villages ;  and  as  soon  as  the  grass  was  thick 
on  the  green  there  was  dancing  to  the  music  of  pipes. 
Great  swords  hung  idle  in  the  armories ;  young  knights 
bethought  themselves  of  forgotten  roundelays. 

But  the  climax  to  the  public  joy  was  reached  when 
the  young  king  took  a  bride  from  over  the  sea. 
Then  truly  there  were  festivities  worth  writing  about, 
were  it  not  that  one  feast  is  so  like  another,  and 
easily  imagined. 

Indeed,  one  might  well  be  tired  before  the  end  of 
all  the  gayeties  pertaining  to  a  king's  nuptials ;  but 
it  were  improper  in  the  king  himself  to  show  signs 
of  weariness.  However,  if  at  the  end  of  a  feast  un 
duly  prolonged,  all  the  guests  were  genuinely  enjoy 
ing  themselves,  —  if  the  new  queen  and  the  ladies 
who  had  accompanied  her  from  over  the  water  were 
so  remarkable  for  beauty  and  sprightliness  that  they 
could  enthrall  the  attention  of  all  within  eye  or  ear 
shot, — it  would  not  be  a  subject  of  great  wonder  that 
the  king  —  a  silent,  morose  person  at  best  —  could 
grow  pale  with  tedium  unnoticed,  even  that  he  could 
slip  away  and  for  a  moment  be  unmissed. 

He  passed  quickly  from  room  to  room  of  the  palace, 
seeking  quiet ;  but  all  the  chambers  were  lighted,  all 
were  bedecked  in  honor  of  this  great  occasion.  The 
garden,  —  even  that  was  lit  with  lamps  suspended 


254  SHEPHERDS. 

among  the  trees ;  he  could  see  holiday  figures  moving 
among  them.  And  to  leave  the  palace,  the  seat  of 
joy,  he  must  pass  the  sentinels,  who  would  naturally 
wonder.  The  poor  great  king,  sickened  by  a  sense 
of  his  captivity,  stepped  into  the  deep  recess  of  a 
window ;  there  at  least  the  heavy  hangings  could  be 
so  drawn  as  to  shut  from  his  eyes  the  lights  of  the 
interior.  He  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  casement, 
and  cast  back  his  head  so  that  he  could  forget  the 
idle,  colored  lights  swinging  below,  see  only  through 
the  tops  of  the  trees  the  severe  stars,  the  tranquil 
clouds. 

And  this  it  was  to  be  a  king !  God  knew  he  had 
not  wished  for  greatness.  He  had  undertaken  to 
uphold  the  right,  which  had  happened  in  his  case  to 
mean  reconquering  a  throne  for  himself;  now  that 
the  struggle  was  over,  that  he  had  played  his  part 
of  a  man,  disappointing  no  one  who  relied  on  him, 
and  there  was  time  to  think,  to  be  a  very  person, 
God  might  know  that  power  was  not  what  he  wanted, 
—  power  over  people  who  were  nothing  to  him,  to 
whom  he  was  nothing. 

With  yearning  fondness  his  thought  reverted  to 
the  days  of  his  exiled  youth. 

Good  days !  but  there  had  been  even  better ;  and 
his  thought  brooded  on  the  days  when  he  had  tended 
sheep. 

As  an  exile,  those  who  surrounded  him  —  he  felt 
now  with  a  sense  become  morbid  since  he  had  lived 
among  these  flatterers  —  had  not  seen  in  him  only  a 
man ;  he  had  still  been  to  them  a  king's  son,  a  pos 
sible  sovereign.  And  as  such,  when  fortune  favored 


SHEPHERDS.  255 

him,  he  had  remembered  them  with  gifts  and  honors. 
It  had  become  a  title  of  distinction  to  have  sheltered 
him ;  they  had  their  reward. 

But  the  shepherds  had  not  known.  He  had  been 
only  a  shepherd  among  them,  —  just  himself,  un 
adorned  man.  And  he  had  never  given  them  any 
thing  ;  they  were  not  aware  to  this  day  that  he  was 
other  than  a  poor  lad.  And  they  had  been  kind  to 
him  in  their  rude  way ;  they  had  seemed  to  like  him, 
—  not  surpassingly  well,  but  he  found  value  in  that 
moderation ;  they  had  expressed  no  more,  no  less, 
than  they  felt.  And  one  among  them  — 

This  bride  of  his,  now,  —  this  political  exigency, 
of  another  race,  from  a  foreign  place,  —  beautiful  she 
should  be  called ;  but  what  was  beauty  to  him  ? 
Her  shallow  light-brown  eyes,  full  of  the  restless 
sparkling  of  wit,  had  no  language  to  his  eyes;  her 
graceful,  mannered  mouth,  that  he  was  assured  would 
at  some  time  think  itself  obliged  to  utter  various  lies 
such  as  he  could  with  ease  imagine,  repelled  him 
before  it  had  spoken  them.  He  looked  her  over  in 
his  mind  with  a  cold  dislike  for  her,  with  her  civil 
grace,  her  fastuous  habiliments,  and  the  nerve-vexing 
perfume  that  escaped  from,  their  every  shining  fold. 
He  repeated  to  himself  that  she  had  taken  him,  as  he 
her, — a  necessary  evil.  She  had  gained  already  what 
she  wanted,  —  power,  position.  The  gift  of  his  heart, 
had  he  been  moved  to  spend  it  on  her,  was  among 
her  least  requirements.  She  had  nothing  to  do  with 
his  real  life ;  to  her,  too,  he  was  only  the  king.  His 
wife  made  one  of  the  crowd  who  by  their  exaggerated, 
never-neglected  deference  to  something  that  was  not 


256  SHEPHERDS. 

he  —  not  the  love-hungry,  human  thing  keenly  con 
scious  of  his  little  worth,  his  little  importance  — 
would  contribute  to  give  him  this  unutterably  forsaken 
feeling  of  being  nothing  at  all,  no  one,  a  simulacrum, 
a  hollow  mask,  a  ghost,  —  having  himself,  the  part 
of  him  that  was  not  king,  no  place  in  the  world,  no 
home  whatever,  no  state,  prospect,  hope. 

To  the  shepherds  alone  he  was  a  man ;  therefore  he 
loved  them.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  in  all  the 
world  none  but  they  had  ever  loved  him.  And  one 
among  them  — 

How  refreshing  to  think  of  those  days  at  the  end 
of  a  day  such  as  this  had  been,  —  full  of  noise  and 
empty  display,  and  the  pretence  of  joy !  He  thought 
himself  back  on  the  hill-side  in  the  spring  of  the 
year.  The  sheep  grazed  in  little  groups  among  the 
blooming  gorse.  Scattered  through  the  patches  of 
new  grass  were  violets ;  primroses  too  in  little  clumps. 
And  under  the  thin-clad  trees,  among  last  year's 
leaves,  the  hosts  of  the  blue-bells.  The  wavy  plain 
below  was  pearly  green,  faintly  spotted  and  striped 
here  and  there  with  the  darker  trees, — firs  and  pines. 
The  little  hills  at  the  horizon  were  opal-colored  with 
mist,  —  each  successive  line  milkier  as  it  was  farther, 
till  they  blended  with  the  sky.  The  shadows  of  the 
clouds  sailed  slowly  across  the  valley,  sweet  to  watch 
through  half-closed  eyes.  The  air  quivered  and 
shimmered  up  from  the  ground.  He  lay  on  his  back 
with  the  welcome  sun  in  his  face.  In  those  perfect 
morning  hours  the  struggle  seemed  so  far  away.  He 
could  almost  dream  that  it  was  the  youth  of  the 
world,  and  he  the  first  man,  not  lonesome  yet. 


SHEPHERDS.  257 

Sometimes  after  lying  long,  aimlessly  thinking,  — 
for  he  found  it  possible  under  the  influence  of  sun- 
warmth  and  sounds  of  bees  in  the  broom  to  cut 
himself  off  from  all  unprofitable  thinking  over  of 
difficulties  past  and  to  come,  —  he  would  wish  for  a 
book,  one  of  the  many  that  had  kept  him  company 
in  former  hours  of  idleness.  There  were  passages  in 
some  showing  forth  just  quiet  scenes  like  this  under 
his  eyes,  and  in  words  that  would  have  added  still 
a  grace  to  its  grace.  As  he  could  not  obtain  books, 
nor  yet  remember  any  more  than  vaguely,  he  did  his 
best  to  satisfy  himself  with  framing  in  his  mind  what 
some  page  might  have  contained.  He  found  in  that 
occupation  a  peculiar  solace. 

Sometimes  Elizabeth,  the  daughter  of  the  old 
shepherd  whose  hut  he  shared,  came  to  him  on 
the  hill-side  with  a  message,  as  often  without, 
and  tarried  awhile  sitting  on  the  grass  beside 
him. 

She  was  a  sweet  creature,  with  quiet,  slowly 
moving  eyes.  She  fixed  them  on  him  while  he 
spoke,  wide  and  limpid,  and  he  almost  fancied  he 
could  see  the  thought  he  awakened  dawning  and 
growing  in  them ;  and  when  he  ceased  she  half- 
dropped  her  eyelids  and  looked  away  sidewise, 
pondering  with  parted  lips,  fingering  the  end  of 
one  of  her  brown  braids. 

It  was  plain  that  she  did  not  always  understand 
when  he  amused  himself  with  telling  her  what  he 
had  been  thinking,  and  repeated  to  her  the  harmo 
nious  phrases  he  had  built ;  but  surely  she  liked  to 
hear  them.  With  that  same  look  perhaps  she  would 

17 


258  SHEPHERDS. 

have  listened  to  a  bird's  singing,  receiving  just  an 
impression  of  sweetness. 

But  something  of  it  all  she  did  understand.  He 
knew  it  when  she  softly  nodded  to  herself  at  some 
reference  he  made  to  the  things  with  which  she  was 
familiar,  —  the  changing  colors  of  the  landscape  as 
the  day  declined,  the  summer  sounds  in  the  air,  the 
pleasures  and  hardships  of  shepherds'  lives. 

She  hardly  ever  laughed,  and  she  seldom  spoke,  — 
from  no  deliberate  reserve,  nor  shyness  that  he  could 
discover;  she  seemed  to  feel  no  restless  need  for 
expression.  Yet  she  fitly  filled  the  horizon  of  his 
shepherd-life,  just  sitting  as  she  did  in  the  daisied 
grass  with  that  peculiar  not  ungraceful  stoop  of  her 
still  rather  angular  young- woman  shoulders,  that  were 
only  half-hidden  by  her  rough  brown  gown.  Balm 
seemed  to  flow  on  him  from  her  presence.  She  gave 
him  peace,  by  example,  by  contagion.  There  was  in 
her  no  effort  to  reveal  or  to  conceal;  she  was  as  she  hap 
pened  to  be,  and  thought  not  of  it.  She  was  akin  in 
his  thought  of  her  to  the  little  stolid  serene  hills  that 
bounded  his  world  for  the  time,  shut  him  in  from 
trouble  and  peril,  and  that  he  had  grown  so  to  love. 

Not  very  often  had  she  been  with  him  where  he 
fed  his  flock,  but  he  did  not  think  of  the  hill-side  nor 
any  pasture  without  her.  The  moments  he  recalled 
were  always  those  in  which  her  simple  form  had  been 
outlined  against  his  sky.  In  his  imagination  there 
could  be  no  pastoral  picture  without  her. 

He  could  see  her  at  this  moment  as  if  she  had 
verily  been  before  him  as  in  the  past.  So  dark  she 
looked  in  the  great  air,  though  no  doubt  Nature 


SHEPHERDS.  259 

meant  her  to  be  fair.  The  sun  had  gilded  her  skin 
over  and  over,  season  after  season,  but  not  unkindly, 
—  smoothly  and  warmly,  as  if  with  an  interest  in 
preserving  its  clear  tone.  From  the  sunburned  face 
her  eyes  looked  out  strangely  light,  the  same  misty 
gray-blue  as  the  sky.  Sun  and  wind  and  weather  had 
roughened  and  faded  her  brown  hair,  yet  not  made 
it  unbeautiful ;  it  drooped  heavy  and  sheenless  over 
her  ears,  and  lay  down  her  bosom  in  braids ;  he  re 
membered  how  it  had  an  unexpected  dull  light  streak 
along  the  forehead  and  ears.  He  always  saw  her 
with  her  mouth  a  little  open,  like  a  person  who  has 
wholly  forgotten  himself. 

Nor  did  the  hut  ever  rise  in  his  mind  but  she  was 
in  it :  sometimes  resting  on  the  low  bench  by  the 
hearth,  sometimes  coming  and  going  about  such 
simple  household  duties  as  were  hers,  neither  awk 
wardly  nor  dexterously,  briskly  nor  languidly,  but 
in  complete  unconsciousness  of  herself,  with  no  pur 
pose  but  that  the  thing  she  was  about  should  be 
done. 

Once  he  had  allowed  his  sheep  to  stray,  — he  had 
been  thinking  of  other  things,  —  and  the  night  had 
closed  in.  The  old  shepherd  had  rated  him  roundly. 
Then  she  had  gone  forth  with  him,  and  had  found 
the  sheep ;  and  she  had  brought  the  youngest  lamb 
home  in  her  arms.  Most  gracious  of  all  the  images 
that  returned  to  him  of  her,  was  that  image  with  a 
young  lamb  in  her  arms. 

The  shepherds  ?  The  shepherds  ?  When  he  thought 
of  the  friendly  shepherds,  it  was  perhaps  most  of  her 
he  thought ;  she  seemed  to  represent  them  to  him,  to 


260  SHEPHERDS. 

embody  all  that  good  part  of  his  life,  when  in  the 
midst  of  a  threatening  sea  he  had  come  upon  a  little 
island,  and  resting  there  had  grown  strong  for  further 
battle  with  the  never-resting  deep. 

They  only  in  all  the  world  —  the  shepherds  only 
—  had  ever  loved  him  ?  Did  he  not  perhaps  mean 
that  she  alone  among  all  women  from  her  heart  had 
loved  him  ?  The  shepherds,  the  men,  had  treated 
him  as  one  of  themselves,  had  jested  with  him  and 
roughly  used  him,  as  no  one  beside  had  ever  dared  ; 
and  that  had  rejoiced  his  manly  heart.  But  had  they 
loved  him  so  much  that  he  should  yearn  back  over 
them  ?  Had  they  not  long  forgotten  him  ?  And  if 
they  had,  did  it  greatly  matter  ?  But  she,  —  had  she 
forgotten  him  ? 

And  then  he  asked  himself  why  he  should  think 
that  she  had  loved  him  ;  for  never  in  the  days  when 
they  were  near  had  the  thought  clearly  formed  itself 
in  his  mind.  Was  it  not  this  overwhelming  loneli 
ness,  this  sense  of  the  shallowness  and  vanity  of  the 
world,  this  heartsickness,  that  made  him  create  out 
of  his  own  vast  need  for  feeling  himself  beloved  the 
illusion  that  Elizabeth  had  loved  him  ? 

He  thought  of  it  long,  —  long.  No,  he  could  not 
make  himself  believe  it  an  illusion.  In  a  deep,  un 
explored  chamber  of  his  heart,  the  knowledge  must 
have  always  lain  ;  but  there  had  seemed  no  need  for 
clear  thought,  still  less  for  speech.  She  had  not 
spoken  her  love,  but  she  had  not  disguised  it.  The 
very  remembrance  of  her  that  set  him  back  in  the 
past  created  about  him  an  atmosphere  of  frank,  still 
tenderness.  Why,  he  wondered  now  in  his  heart- 


SHEPHEKDS.  261 

hunger,  looking  back  almost  impatiently,  —  why  had 
he  not  made  it  more,  brought  it  to  utterance,  fixed 
this  floating  sweetness  ?  Why  not  given  himself 
something  to  remember  in  the  days  of  dearth  ? 

Then  he  recollected  how  they  were  ;  how  he  was 
himself  in  those  days  grown  so  simple,  perhaps  with 
living  out  under  the  simple  skies,  —  returned  to  the 
first  man,  reduced  almost  to  being  like  a  tree,  that 
lets  the  leaves  and  blossoms  take  their  own  time  to 
bud,  ripen  when  they  are  ready. 

And  while  all  the  wonderful  harvest  of  flower  and 
fruit  was  still  only  sap  darkly  flowing  within  the 
bark  that  gave  no  sign,  the  quiet  time  had  ended. 
He  had  been  forced  to  leap  from  the  isle  of  truce 
back  again  into  the  troubled  sea. 

During  the  fight  for  life  he  had  scarcely  had  leisure 
for  regrets.  But  now  that  the  desired  haven  was 
attained,  and  the  fulfilment  of  his  proudest  worldly 
hopes  left  his  soul  unsatisfied,  awakened  in  it  noth 
ing  but  longings  for  something  different,  altogether 
different,  —  he  looked  back  to  the  island  that  a  soft 
mist  beautified,  and  resolved  that  there  without 
knowing  it  he  had  been  happy.  He  reproached 
himself  that  though  Fate  had  forbidden  he  should 
stay,  yet  he  had  left  lightly,  without  sufficiently 
feeling  what  he  lost.  He  could  find  it  in  himself 
to  grieve  over  it  in  due  measure  now. 

But  even  as  before  on  the  doubt  that  his  past 
happiness  might  be  the  creation  of  his  own  fancy, 
had  risen  the  conviction  of  its  reality ;  now  on  his 
attempt  to  treat  it  in  his  mind  as  a  reality,  and  derive 
comfort  from  it,  rose  the  disquieting  doubt  that  he 


262  SHEPHERDS. 

might  after  all  have  been  building  out  of  his  imagi 
nation  this  with  which  to  console  himself ;  and  if  it 
were  a  dream,  he  was  indeed  poor,  poor  as  no  beggar 
in  his  kingdom. 

While  he  was  suffering  with  this  fear,  a  door  open 
ing  let  a  gush  of  music  to  his  ear.  It  brought  to  him 
the  scene  he  had  fled,  the  remembrance  that  civil 
courtiers  must  by  this  be  searching  for  him  with  many 
a  whispered,  fertile  comment  on  his  ill-timed  caprice. 
It  filled  him  with  loathing,  mad  longing  for  escape, — 
a  tumult  of  feelings  so  angry  and  bitter  and  wretched 
that  they  could  not  be  repressed.  They  shook  him, 
they  clamored  for  expression.  They  crowded  upward 
until  recognizing  that  the  only  expression  of  such 
hateful  passions  must  be  petty  violence,  unmanly 
lamentation,  what  dignity  survived  in  him  revolted. 
He  called  upon  all  his  strength ;  and  he  fought  the 
tiger-furies  one  by  one,  conquered  them  right  royally, 
and  chained  them  down  back  in  the  dark  dens  of 
the  heart.  He  arose  strong  from  strife :  all  could 
be  endured. 

But  once  for  an  hour  he  should  return  among  the 
shepherds  as  a  shepherd,  —  not  to  satisfy  any  weak 
longing  to  look  again  on  the  face  of  Elizabeth  :  as  a 
punishment  he  would  do  it,  as  a  medicine. 

A  rage  of  severity  toward  himself  made  him  in 
wishing  to  tear  up  the  weeds  from  his  heart  uproot 
too  the  harmless  flowers.  If  he  saw  the  shepherds 
again,  he  said  to  himself  with  stern  reasonableness, 
they  would  not  seem  to  him  as  before.  They  would 
correct  in  him  this  distorted  vision  of  themselves. 
He  should  not  be  haunted  after  that  with  this  sense 


SHEPHERDS.  263 

of  them  that  made  the  rest  of  the  world  cheap  and 
distasteful ;  he  should  find  that  they  had  amply  for 
gotten  him ;  he  should  behold  Elizabeth  joined  to  a 
boor.  He  would  come  away  and  be  at  rest  concern 
ing  them ;  they  would  fade  then  from  his  mind,  and 
the  remembrance  of  days  spent  among  them,  accu 
rately  revived,  would  no  longer  by  seeming  so  good 
make  the  rest  of  life  so  bad. 
Once,  for  an  hour  ! 

It  was  long,  however,  before  he  went.  He  made 
himself  accustomed  to  that  thought  of  his  delusion ; 
and  when  he  had  involuntarily  slipped  back  into  a 
sentimental  musing  over  that  time  set  apart  from  the 
rest  of  his  life,  he  would  pityingly  scorn  himself  for 
self-indulgence. 

He  was  young,  —  that  king.  It  still  mattered  to 
him  —  not  in  so  many  words  said  to  himself,  it  was 
his  manner  of  being  that  it  mattered  to  him  —  that  a 
certain  symmetry,  harmony,  should  be  established  in 
his  life.  Symmetry,  harmony,  were  not  approached ; 
but  the  desire  for  them,  the  effort  after  them,  never 
wholly  slept. 

It  was  perhaps  not  so  much  a  sense  that  he  was 
accountable  for  his  use  of  himself,  as  an  instinct,  in 
nate,  toward  things  straight  and  seemly  that  created 
his  necessity  for  feeling  that  he  was  in  the  measure 
of  his  powers  worthy  the  reverence  of  spirits  that  he 
revered. 

This  esthetic  aspiration  so  worked  that  he  could 
not  bear  to  halt,  to  go  bowed  and  groaning,  to  be  a 
grotesque  figure;  he  must  finally  adjust  himself  to 


264  SHEPHERDS. 

his  burden,  whatever  it  were,  and  contrive  to  stand 
straight  under  it,  making  no  concession  to  its  power 
of  galling,  —  and  this  to  his  own  eyes  more  particu 
larly  than  to  the  world's,  which  at  this  point  of  his 
life  he  felt  to  be  incapable  of  understanding  him  or 
sympathizing  with  his  thirst  for  abstract  dignity. 

Having  said  so  much,  I  have  to  add  that  what  I 
have  said  was  not  true  of  this  king  in  an  abundant 
measure.  You  will  gather  how  far  it  was  true  from 
what  remains  of  the  story.  For  he  was  not  a  strong 
man ;  only,  the  same  sense  that  commended  to  his 
admiration  the  stories  of  heroes,  the  noble  sights 
of  nature,  the  soul-stirring  words  of  poets,  and  the 
beauty  of  pure,  simple  lives,  made  him  wish  to  be 
strong  and  morally  stately. 

His  life  now  was  full  of  business ;  he  had  not  much 
time  left  in  which  to  feel  himself  happy  or  unhappy. 
The  poignancy  passed  from  his  misery ;  as  the  man 
became  more  and  more  merged  in  the  king,  engrossed 
in  cares  of  state,  he  felt  less  and  still  less  that  he 
was  lonely,  unmated,  unfriended.  He  became  used 
to  the  flatteries  he  heard,  so  that  they  did  not  offend 
him  each  like  a  sneer;  they  seemed  a  matter  of  course, 
like  the  blazons  in  the  windows.  Also,  he  became 
interested  in  the  great  game  he  played. 

Still,  at  moments,  without  a  reason  but  that  the 
sky  looked  in  such  a  way,  the  sadness  that  seemed 
ever  lying  in  wait  for  him  crept  from  its  hiding,  and 
took  possession  of  his  soul.  Then  all  against  his 
will,  his  shepherd  days  shone  out  fair  and  quiet  and 
freshly  green  among  the  gray  desolateness  of  his  life ; 
but  he  thought  of  them,  when  he  did  not  condemn 


SHEPHEKDS.  265 

his  regret  for  them  as  arising  from  a  conscious  self- 
deceit,  as  if  they  had  been  an  incident  in  the  life  of 
another  man,  as  if  those  hills  had  long  been  swept 
from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

It  was  the  young  knight  who  had  been  his  mes 
senger  when  among  the  shepherds,  and  who  knew 
his  heart  better  than  any  other,  who  once  divining 
his  secret  melancholy,  anxious  to  suggest  something 
that  should  divert  him,  asked  if  they  should  not 
as  a  pastime  one  day  revisit  the  shepherds'  little 
settlement. 

The  king  at  first  set  the  suggestion  aside;  but  with 
the  satisfaction  that  another  should  have  thought  it 
a  natural  suggestion  to  make,  grew  the  desire  to  seize 
on  it.  The  thought  came  again  and  again,  each  time 
more  importunate,  till  an  emotion  became  attached 
to  it,  then  a  faint  throb,  like  the  echo  of  an  old 
pulsation. 

And  at  last  he  resolved  to  do  what  he  had  fully 
resolved  once  before ;  but  not  with  the  same  end  in 
view,  —  to  punish  and  cure  himself.  Even  the  state 
of  things  in  which  that  should  be  necessary  seemed 
far  behind.  He  would  go  in  a  contemplative,  reason 
able,  philosophical  mood.  He  would  give  himself 
this  satisfaction  as  a  recompense  for  having  grown 
indifferent. 

So  he  and  his  friend  absented  themselves  on  some 
plausible  ground  for  a  day  or  two,  and  disguised  in 
the  clothes  which  he  had  saved,  early  in  the  twilight, 
having  begged  his  companion  to  remain  behind,  he 
climbed  the  little  hill  on  the  hip  of  which  stood 
the  hut. 


266  SHEPHERDS. 

So  familiar,  yet  so  unfamiliar  all  seemed.  A  hun 
dred  memories  came  rushing  back  upon  him,  —  mem 
ories  of  common,  frequently  uncomfortable  things  that 
he  had  half  forgotten.  Not  so  easy  a  life  had  it  been 
except  on  those  fair  mornings  which  had  stuck  in  his 
memory  to  the  blotting-out  of  all  else.  He  felt  retro 
spectively  the  chill  of  the  rain  which  he  had  so  often 
endured,  the  scorching  of  the  sun,  the  anxiety  con 
cerning  the  number  of  his  sheep,  the  fear  of  the 
wolf ;  also,  —  which  he  had  forgotten  entirely,  —  the 
continuous  disquiet  of  dreading  discovery,  the  never 
sleeping  suspicion  that  among  the  faces  about  him 
might  be  one  of  a  traitor  and  spy. 

And  as  he  came  in  sight  of  the  hut  it  seemed  to 
him  meaner  and  smaller  than  he  had  remembered. 
What  lack  of  air  must  be  in  the  tiny  sleeping- 
places  !  How  one  would  suffer  of  it  coming  from 
the  lofty  kingly  chambers,  large  and  cool  and  per 
fumed  !  How  had  he  forgotten  these  things  ? 

Nevertheless  bis  heart  beat,  —  his  heart,  which  was 
invincibly  young,  and  could  not  take  all  quietly  as 
his  mind  would  have  commanded.  His  heart  beat 
unreasonably,  and  a  mist  came  over  his  eyes,  and  he 
was  forced  to  stop  still  and  gather  himself  together, 
for  his  nerves  seemed  on  the  verge  of  falling  into 
uncontrollable  quivering. 

The  sky  was  gray,  with  a  hint  of  soft  sunset  violet 
through  it ;  a  hint  of  violet  was  in  the  fading  green 
of  the  grass  and  trees.  Stillness  lay  over  all ;  just 
a  confused  faint  sound  of  animal  life  thrilled  the 
cooling  air. 

The  little  hut  looked  at  him  from  the  distance  as 


SHEPHERDS.  267 

with  a  human  face;  its  two  windows  peering  like 
eyes  through  the  hanging  fringe  of  thatch  ;  its  door- 
mouth  closed,  a  feather  of  smoke  curling  up  from  its 
crown. 

He  was  relieved  at  that  sign,  —  the  smoke. 

He  waited  to  see  if  no  one  would  come  out.  He 
found  himself  confusedly  preparing  words  with  which 
to  meet  the  shepherds,  —  stories  to  tell  them. 

He  went  a  few  steps,  strong  with  his  inventions, 
then  stopped  again,  overwhelmed  with  an  unaccus 
tomed  timidity.  It  was  as  if  he  had  really  been  the 
shepherd  they  believed  him,  and  embarrassed  at  not 
having  made  himself  alive  to  them  in  so  long. 

His  imagination  offered  him  the  probable  scene  of 
meeting,  the  questions  which  he  should  meet  with 
lies,  —  for  the  idea  of  making  himself  known  was  far 
from  him,  he  could  not  have  endured  a  change  in 
their  relations,  —  and  a  repugnance  so  great  overcame 
him  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  turning  upon  his 
heels,  heart-sick,  and  returning  thence  without  at 
tempt  at  seeing  them. 

While  he  still  hesitated,  a  dog  rushed  toward  him, 
sniffed,  and  immediately  recognizing  him,  gave  such, 
signs  of  unfeigned  joy  that  he  would  have  wished 
to  catch  the  faithful  animal  in  his  arms  and  thank 
him. 

He  quieted  the  dog ;  then  strangely  moved,  and 
with  an  emotion  ever  increasing,  he  went  toward 
the  hut. 

When  he  was  quite  near  he  stopped  again;  he 
could  not  face  them  all  at  once,  at  first. 

He  leaned  against  a  tree,  one  of  a   clump   near 


268  SHEPHERDS. 

the  hut,  and  waited  to  see  if  no  one  would  come  out ; 
—  hoping  in  turn  that  some  one  would  come,  and  that 
no  one  would  come,  —  glad  that  he  was  still  free  to 
withdraw  unseen,  loath  to  give  up  that  freedom,  yet 
wishing  that  independently  of  his  own  will  might  be 
cut  off  the  possibility  of  his  returning  as  he  came. 

He  waited  some  time,  unsatisfied,  surprised  at  the 
stillness.  He  knew  that  at  this  hour  some  of  them 
had  returned ;  the  smoke  showed  that  one  at  least 
was  at  home. 

His  excitement  subsided  as  he  waited.  At  last  he 
was  possessed  of  himself,  and  able  to  reflect.  If  they 
had  moved  elsewhere  ?  His  heart  sank.  But  no,  — 
it  was  their  dog. 

The  twilight  had  faded  still  more  ;  the  violet  had 
ebbed  from  the  gray ;  a  solemn  whiteness  dropped 
from  the  even  single-colored  clouds. 

Once  at  such  an  hour  Elizabeth  and  he  had  heard 
together  standing  there  a  bird  unknown  to  them  and 
never  heard  again  after.  It  had  a  strange,  plaintive 
note.  When  its  voice  had  faded  up  the  hill,  they 
had  tried  to  imitate  it.  The  scene  and  the  hour  and 
the  looks  of  the  sky  brought  back  to  his  mind  vividly 
that  incident.  He  whistled  the  bird-note  tentatively, 
then  with  more  assurance,  once,  —  twice  — 

The  door  opened ;  a  figure  that  he  could  never 
mistake  came  toward  him.  He  stepped  to  the  edge 
of  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  and  stopped,  —  no  more 
than  a  gray  blot,  his  shepherd's  cloak  about  him, 
the  shepherd's  hood  drawn  over  his  face.  She  came 
nearer.  He  was  half  aware  of  an  aching  pain  of 
suspense. 


SHEPHERDS.  269 

She  approached  with  a  step  less  free  than  he  knew 
of  her,  as  if  almost  she  feared,  one  hand  doubtfully 
outheld.  He  could  hear  her  breathing  as  she  pushed 
forward  her  face,  trying  to  pierce  the  darkness  of  his 
hood.  He  did  not  know  what  kept  him  motionless. 

"Is  it  thy  ghost  ?"  she  asked  huskily.  "William  ! 
William ! " 

The  old  name  !    That  was  his  name  to  them. 

He  caught  her  uncertain,  groping  hand,  chill  as 
stone,  into  his  two  warm  ones,  and  for  all  answer 
laughed  his  living  laugh. 

Then  there  was  silence,  a  long  troubled  silence ; 
and  a  great  dismay  grew  in  him,  and  a  tender,  un 
bounded,  yearning  pity.  He  knew  that  she  was  cry 
ing,  crying  with  all  her  soul,  so  that  she  could  not 
speak,  —  that  still,  simple,  inexpressive  Elizabeth. 

"  Come  where  there  is  more  light,"  he  said  abruptly, 
greatly  troubled,  he  too,  his  heart  trembling  as  the 
earth  of  old  with  the  saints  that  were  asleep  rising 
from  their  graves ;  "  I  long  to  see  thy  face." 

She  let  him  lead  her  away  from  the  trees  to  the 
rough  barriers  of  an  empty  sheepfold.  They  leaned 
against  that,  facing  the  west;  and  turned  to  one 
another,  undisguisedly  feeding  their  eyes  upon  each 
other's  long-lacked  features.  She  presented  her  face 
shamelessly,  all  wet  as  it  was.  He  saw  how  it  had 
grown  thin  ;  it  shocked  him  with  its  look  of  inex 
pressible  want.  It  was  easy  to  read  in  it  what  stood 
written  so  plain. 

She  said  nothing ;  she  only  looked  at  him  as  if  not 
daring  to  remove  her  eyes  from  his,  lest  he  should 
have  vanished. 


270  SHEPHERDS. 

"  Didst  thou  think  I  should  not  come  again  ? "  he 
asked  at  last. 

"  How  could  I  think  ? "  she  said,  with  that  same 
voice  roughened  by  her  crying,  so  unlike  the  voices 
he  heard  —  the  polished,  unctuous,  courtly  voices 
—  yet  sweet  in  his  ears.  "  Thou  hadst  not  told 
me.  Each  day  in  the  morning  when  I  rose,  I  said, 
'He  may  come  to-day;'  and  at  night  I  said,  'He 
has  not  come.'" 

"So  many  mornings!  So  many  nights!"  he  ex 
claimed  wonderingly,  with  a  novel,  subtle  sweetness 
creeping  through  all  his  veins. 

"  It  has  been  a  longer  year  than  ever  any  before." 
She  stopped  at  that.  There  was  in  her  tone  neither 
reproach  for  him  nor  suggestion  of  self-pity ;  and  still 
they  looked  at  each  other. 

His  hood  had  dropped  back,  and  she  might  see 
how  he  was  different.  A'  dusky  beard  blurred  the 
lines  of  his  mouth  and  chin,  which  she  must  remem 
ber  smooth ;  his  face,  formerly  bronzed  like  her  own, 
might  well  seem  to  her  spectral  in  its  present  refined 
pallor. 

A  long  silence  fell  on  them  again. 

At  last  he  said  softly,  "  Tell  me  all." 

She  replied  :  "  There  's  naught  —  but  what  thou 
knowest.  Yes,  this —  They  bid  me  wed  Jude  — 
Thou  rememberest.  But,  Father  in  heaven !  how 
should  I  wed?" 

After  a  moment  she  pursued  in  a  sharper  voice,  — 
more  like  other  people's,  other  women's,  —  with  a 
first  vague  intimation  in  it  of  doubts,  self-torment, 
complaint,  "  Perhaps  thou  —  perhaps  —  " 


SHEPHERDS.  271 

But  she  got  no  further.  After  a  pitiful,  ineffectual 
struggle  for  the  word  that  should  express  her,  she 
seemed  to  give  up  all  hope  in  speech.  For  a  moment 
her  head  drooped  on  her  breast,  then  suddenly  was 
lifted  back ;  she  unfolded  her  arms  that  had  lain 
upon  the  barrier,  and  opened  them  fully,  and  let 
them  drop  heavily  at  her  sides,  turning  to  him  with 
that  helpless  movement  of  baring  her  heart. 

It  was  a  gesture  full  of  speech ;  it  put  words  to 
shame. 

"Fear  not,"  said  the  king  then,  casting  his  arm 
across  her  shoulders,  and  bringing  his  shepherd's 
cloak  about  her  with  a  large  gesture  of  taking  pos 
session  as  a  very  king,  and  shutting  his  capture  in 
away  from  all  the  world,  — "  fear  not,  but  that  I 
too  love  thee ! " 

And  again  there  was  silence,  —  long  silence. 

She  stood  against  him,  quiet,  his  great  cloak  half 
across  her  face. 

Life  for  a  little  space  was  to  him  absolutely  good. 
All  the  movement  of  life,  in  thought,  in  sensation, 
seemed  brought  to  a  wondrous  stand-still ;  he  seemed 
to  hang  poised  as  a  broad-winged  eagle,  effortless, 
irresponsible,  over  an  infinite,  blissful,  supporting  ele 
ment.  His  heart  was  as  a  goblet,  neither  wanting 
liquor  nor  yet  overflowing,  —  a  goblet  at  the  moment 
in  which  the  divine  draught  swells  smoothly  up  above 
the  brim,  before  its  surface  trembles  and  breaks,  and 
one  knows  that  the  cup  has  been  over-full.  Yes, 
for  a  space  life  was  to  him  absolutely,  absolutely 
good. 

They  stood ;  they  looked  away  toward  the  west, 


272  SHEPHERDS. 

that  was  still  a  little  white.  It  had  become  too  dark 
to  see  their  faces. 

The  clouds  with  an  insensible  motion  had  flattened 
themselves  out,  had  worn  thin  in  places ;  at  the  point 
whereon  the  king's  eyes  were  fixed  now  gleamed  a 
star,  watery  and  dim,  then  brighter ;  it  kindled  a 
faint  reflection  in  the  king's  silent  tears.  For  the 
eagle  had  felt  its  weight,  and  dropped  a  little; 
the  goblet  had  brimmed  over  by  a  crimson  drop 
or  two. 

The  king  gazed  and  gazed,  standing  motionless, 
with  life  still  intense,  greatly  good,  if  no  more  per 
fect;  and  all  that  passed  through  his  mind  in  that 
hour  I  will  not  describe. 

The  hills  grew  black ;  the  clouds  broke  softly 
apart,  and  here  and  there  let  a  star  be  seen  as 
through  a  veil ;  a  moist  wind  rose,  and  made  in  the 
trees  a  soft  hushing  noise,  and  brought  a  vague  smell 
of  freshly  cut  grass.  The  night  was  still  and  cool, 
and  not  very  dark. 

The  king,  in  his  fixed  thought,  forgot  to  breathe 
sometimes,  and  took  up  the  function  again  with  a 
long  unconscious  sigh. 

Now  and  then  he  believed  himself  ready  to  speak, 
and  his  nerves  stiffened ;  but  they  relaxed  again  as 
he  said  to  himself,  "  Not  yet,  —  not  quite  yet."  And 
his  heart  let  itself  melt  back  into  bliss,  and  his  arm 
pressed  heavier  over  Elizabeth's  neck,  and  on  her 
shoulder  she  felt  his  strong  hand  reassuring  itself 
that  it  still  held  her. 

The  clouds  softly  closed  again,  and  shut  out  every 
glimmer.  How  still  she  leaned, — how  contented  and 


SHEPHERDS.  273 

still !  If  earth  could  but  pass  away  while  they  stood 
so,  —  silent,  and  perfectly  at  one.  But  life  is  not  made 
like  that,  he  thought,  reawakened  to  pain.  A  sense 
of  life's  struggles  and  sadnesses  was  again  upon  him ; 
but  he  felt  courage  to  meet  them,  —  an  exalted  cour 
age  that  he  seemed  to  have  gained  from  the  solemn 
night,  the  beautiful  star,  the  contact  of  such  heavenly 
goodness  and  purity  and  love  as  seemed  to  him  hers. 

And  he  said — and  his  own  voice  startled  him,  falling 
upon  his  ears  harshly  as  the  knell  to  those  supreme 
moments  in  which  he  seemed  to  have  risen  to  a  place 
where  human  speech  was  a  thing  done  with,  out 
grown,  become  superfluous  —  he  said  :  "  For  a  year 
I  have  been  away  from  thee,  and  thou  hast  not  ceased 
loving  me.  Nor  have  I  ever  for  a  moment  ceased 
loving  thee ;  it  is  clear  to  me  now.  None,  none  have 
I  loved  but  thee.  And  we  are  together  again,  and  it 
makes  us  happy.  Thou  understandest  all  I  say  ? " 

He  heard  no  answer,  but  felt  the  slight  movement 
of  her  head. 

"But  not  all  men  were  born  to  be  happy,"  he 
went  on,  feeling  an  increasing  difficulty  in  framing 
his  thought  so  that  it  should  be  plain  to  her  at 
once,  —  "  not  William  !  And  not  all  women,  —  not 
Elizabeth!" 

"  Thou  art  going  away  again ! "  he  heard  her  say, 
scarcely  above  a  whisper.  She  did  not  move  from 
him ;  he  felt  her  shoulders  lifted  sharply,  but  there 
came  no  sound  of  a  groan. 

He  caught  her  closer,  unendurably  hurt  with  hurt 
ing  her,  and  broke  out  with  passionate  raournfulness  : 
"There  is  a  curse  upon  me,  my  girl!  Trust  me, 

18 


274  SHEPHERDS. 

there  is,  though  I  cannot  tell  thee  of  it !  It  is  as  a  wall 
lying  between  us.  We  can  never  pass  it  over  and 
reach  each  other,  and  have  joy  like  others  in  simple 
earthly  fashion.  We  were  born  to  lives  of  sorrow,  of 
renunciation,  thou  and  I  — 

"  Yet  not  all  of  sorrow,"  he  said  with  recovered 
calm  at  last,  turning  his  face  up  to  the  blank  sky. 
He  pursued  with  broad  serenity  :  "  Whatever  come  to 
thy  William  hereafter,  whatever  of  bitter  and  burn 
ing, —  arid  there  can  come  to  him  little  else  than 
things  bitter  and  burning,  —  there  will  always  be 
this  thought  to  sweeten  and  cool  the  anguish  :  Eliza 
beth  loves  me.  Life  cannot  be  all  bad  while  the 
greatest  gift  is  mine,  thy  woman's  love.  Love  me, 
love  me,  love  me,  my  girl !  never  cease,  never  fail 
me.  Let  me  know  that  this  is  sure  as  that  the 
stars  are  shining  somewhere,  and  I  can  make  shift  to 
endure  most  things." 

She  turned  her  head  a  little  inward,  and  kissed  the 
garment  over  his  breast. 

"  I  ought  perhaps  to  bid  thee  forget  me,  —  to  wed 
another  as  they  wish  thee  to.  But  I  will  not  believe 
that  thou  couldst  forget  me,  —  I  will  not  insult  thy 
dear  love.  No,  I  bid  thee  love  me  always,  and  never 
doubt  but  wherever  I  am  and  however  long  I  tarry, 

—  and  perhaps,  my  Elizabeth,  I  may  not  come  again, 

—  I  too  am  loving  thee  with  the  best  that  is  in  me. 
Canst  thou  do  so,  until  the  end  of  everything  ? " 

"  Thou  knowest,"  she  said ;  and  her  voice  gave  him 
a  vision  of  her  face,  trembling  yet  brave. 

"  Take  courage,  for  my  sake,  because  I  bid  thee, 
and  fix  thy  mind  on  the  good  end.  There  are  moments 


SHEPHEKDS.  275 

when  we  seem  to  behold  life  as  if  we  stood  on  a  high 
hill,  and  it  were  a  hamlet  below  that  we  could  take 
in  at  a  glance ;  seeing  all  clear  that  was  intricate, 
—  the  little  paths,  the  sudden  turns.  I  am  standing 
so  ;  and  the  place  which  was  large  enough  for  me  to 
lose  myself  while  I  wandered  among  its  dark  tortuous 
ways,  seems  to  me  such  a  little  place,  the  station  for 
a  day.  We  can  be  patient  easily,"  he  asserted  with 
large,  grave  confidence,  "  since  we  shall  so  soon  be 
out  of  it !  Then  I  will  claim  thee,  thou  shalt  be 
my  own ;  for  in  this  moment  is  made  sure  to  me 
our  immortality.  Thou  dost  not  understand  me  at 
all.  Through  the  darkness  I  feel  thy  great  light 
eyes  wondering.  Ah,  thy  understanding  or  not  lit 
tle  matters.  I  shall  have  time  to  teach  thee.  And 
thou  wilt  understand  the  more  easily,  that  this 
night's  good  thoughts  are  derived  only  from  thee  : 
the  neighborhood  of  thy  simple  goodness  has  so 
lifted  me  above  myself  and  all  in  me  that  is  com 
mon  man  that  I  could  reach  and  lay  hold  of  them. 
So  it  is  truly  thou  that  teachest  me,  thou  of  the 
fruitful  silences." 

Silence  again  fell  on  them.  Then  he  tried  to  find 
the  simplest  words  for  her.  "  Thou  wilt  live  on 
as  thou  hast  lived,  feeding  thy  sheep,  caring  for 
thy  little  lambs,  doing  thy  duties.  Will  it  seem 
so  very  hard  now  that  thou  knowest  my  heart  ? 
But  thou  must  not  pine,  thou  must  not  watch  for 
me,  and  feel  when  I  do  not  come  this  anguish  that 
wastes  the  face  I  love.  Thou  must  hold  fast  to 
this :  My  love  loves  me.  And  I  will  do  the  same. 
And  if  there  should  come  an  upheaval,  a  great 


276  SHEPHERDS. 

change  in  the  order  of  things,  it  might  be  that  I 
returned  to  thee  even  before  our  earthly  days  are 
passed,  and  that  we  fed  flocks  together.  But  we 
may  not  hope  for  that 

"  Oh,  life  is  hard ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  it  is  hard 
to  part  But  let  us  thank  God  for  this  one  thing," 
he  added  almost  solemnly,  —  "  that  we  do  love.  This 
golden  hour  has  held  wealth  for  a  lifetime,  and  I  shall 
bless  God  whatever  else  he  do  to  me." 

He  bent,  crushing  her  more  than  ever  close  to  him, 
and  kissed  her  before  releasing  her. 

She  shivered  when  he  put  her  from  him,  finding 
the  world  cold.  He  took  the  cloak  from  himself  and 
folded  it  around  her. 

Then  he  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the  hut  and 
asked,  "  Are  they  within  ? " 

She  shook  her  head.  "They  are  gone  forth  to 
destroy  a  wolf." 

It  was  a  relief  that  he  should  not  meet  them.  He 
could  not  descend  from  his  high  mood  yet  awhile. 

He  turned  toward  the  cottage,  and  she  followed 
him. 

When  they  were  inside,  she  bent  over  the  embers 
and  kindled  a  rushlight  at  them.  He  looked  about : 
nothing  had  changed,  it  was  as  if  he  had  been  gone 
no  more  than  overnight. 

He  dropped  on  the  settle  by  the  hearth,  and  she 
brought  him  goat's  milk  in  a  wooden  bowL 

Then  he  saw  her  as  if  for  the  first  time,  and  she 
appeared  to  him  the  most  lovable  being  the  world 
contained.  He  wondered  if  she  appeared  beautiful 
to  others,  and  could  not  in  the  least  judge  if  she  were 


SHEPHERDS.  277 

such  as  must  please  the  common  eye,  she  had  so 
supremely  the  gift  of  pleasing  him.  To  him  she 
seemed  to  be  conforming  in  every  line  and  hue  and 
movement  to  some  deep,  simple,  sacred,  eternal  law 
of  beauty. 

She  had  changed  a  little.  Her  dumb  sorrow  had 
moulded  her  features  to  a  more  expressive  purpose. 
At  the  same  time  her  body  had  attained  an  added 
grace  of  womanliness.  He  joyed  in  the  sight  of  her. 
Those  light  steady  eyes  looking  out  of  her  dark  face 
had  to  him  the  cool  dewy  sweetness  of  dawn ;  that 
drooping  hair  shone  on  by  the  sun,  stroked  by  the 
wind,  and  rained  on  by  the  heavens,  seemed  to  him 
to  have  retained  some  quality  of  those  pure  elements, 

—  a  glint  of  light,  a  freshness  of  rain,  a  bitter-sweet 
fragrance  of  air  that  has  been  stirring  among  fruit- 
trees  in  blossom,  over  wet  moss. 

The  rest  of  womankind  was  set  to  shame  by  her, 

—  all  the  well-born  ladies  with  their  mincing  graces, 
their  reds  and  whites  and  civet-cat  perfumes,  and 
artfully  curled  hair,  shamed  by  a  shepherdess  who 
did  not  seem  to  feel  herself  be,  who  never  knew  of 
beauty,  whose  breath  lifted  her  coarse  gown  all  un 
disturbed  by  envious  dreams  of  their  elegance.     She 
was  the  only  woman  on  earth,  all  the  others  pre 
tences,  emptiness,  —  she  only  real  as  the  rocks  with 
the  pale  green  and  purple  lichens  on  them,  she  only 
worth  counting.     And  she  loved  him  without  ques 
tion,  without  consideration,  not   knowing  what  he 
was.     His  heart  exulted  particularly  over  that  last ; 
and  his  soul  went  out  in  blessings  on  her  for  living, 
gratitude  to  her  for  loving  him. 


278  SHEPHERDS. 

He  had  almost  feared  to  see  in  her  face  her  grief  at 
their  parting.  But  something  she  had  caught  from 
his  words  that  set  her  in  a  mood  akin  to  his  own. 
Her  face  shone  too  as  if  she  were  coming  from  some 
high  conversation  ;  her  eyes  were  filled  with  a  noble 
light  of  faith,  —  those  clear  ignorant  eyes  from  which 
not  only  evil  but  all  knowledge  of  evil  seemed  to  him 
absent ;  her  lips  now  softly  sealed  expressed  to  him 
infinite  obedience,  patience  for  a  lifetime.  She  was 
not  weak,  she  was  his  peer,  —  nay,  she  was  above 
him,  though  she  could  not  talk  of  these  things,  per 
haps  not  even  to  herself. 

They  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the  opposite  sides  of 
the  hearth  without  speaking,  taking  with  their  eyes 
a  last  cognizance  of  eacli  other's  face,  not  relenting, 
though  he  grew  pale  and  paler. 

At  last  he  shook  himself  and  rose;  for  a  great 
numbing  fatigue  was  creeping  over  him,  and  he  felt 
his  heroism  ebbing.  She  too  rose  and  followed  him 
to  the  door,  and  a  little  way  into  the  darkness ;  then 
suddenly  she  stopped  short  without  a  word,  and  let 
him  go  his  way  alone. 

For  a  long  time  the  impression  of  that  scene  re 
mained  clear-cut  and  vivid  in  his  consciousness,  and 
helped  to  make  his  life  better. 

The  thought  of  her  was  as  a  flawless  gem  that  he 
could  draw  forth  when  he  was  alone,  and  gaze  on, 
feeling  himself  inestimably  rich. 

But  his  was  a  king's  life,  full  of  business  and  the 
work  of  pleasure ;  and  wave  after  wave  of  sensation 
flowing  in  over  that  treasured  impression  blurred  the 


SHEPHERDS.  279 

lines  of  it  a  little,  then  more,  —  altered  its  face  a 
little,  then  more. 

We  know  how  painfully,  when  he  first  came  to  his 
inheritance,  he  was  impressed  by  the  falseness  of  his 
relation  to  other  men ;  how  he  hated  the  flatteries  of 
the  court,  the  pretences,  the  machinations ;  how  the 
untruth  of  those  about  him  offended,  the  unreality  of 
his  splendid-seeming  life  oppressed  him,  —  how  alto 
gether  the  atmosphere  of  the  court  was  difficult  for 
him  to  breathe.  He  was  a  gentle  and  an  honest  man, 
and  sufficiently  brave  too ;  but  he  had  not  the  in 
cisive  strength  to  hew  into  a  shape  he  preferred  the 
things  he  found  fault  with.  In  his  heart  he  shrank 
from  harsh  measures, — from  giving  surprise  and  pain 
even  to  the  evil.  He  was  doubtful  of  himself,  tem 
porizing.  Now  the  things  one  cannot  change,  or 
that  one  will  not  fight  against  to  change,  one  must 
end  by  countenancing ;  and  after  patience  comes 
reconcilement,  and  after  that,  presently,  indifference. 

The  air  of  the  court  ceased  to  offend  the  king's 
lungs;  it  became  his  natural  breathing-stuff.  Custom 
laid  hold  of  him  with  a  thousand  insidious  meshes> 
and  tied  him  down  passive,  agreeing,  among  those 
whom  he  had  despised  when  he  first  came  in  his 
zealous  youth  from  among  the  hills  where  had  been 
fostered  his  ideals. 

At  last  he  looked  back  upon  those  times  almost 
with  pity,  and  smiled  to  himself  wisely,  "  That  was 
poetry." 

Now  there  is  no  reason  for  a  man's  being  a  hero, 
except  a  reason  I  cannot  well  define, — what  know  I  ? 
—  a  standard  that  lives  within  himself,  an  adoring 


280  SHEPHERDS. 

reverence  for  dead  heroes  perhaps,  and  a  wish  not  to 
disclaim  them  by  his  own  deeds.  There  is  no  reason 
for  a  man's  being  holy  except  a  sense  within  himself 
of  the  beauty  of  holiness.  No  one  outside  required 
of  the  king  to  be  heroic  or  to  be  holy;  it  rested 
with  his  own  soul.  And  as  that  got  further  from  his 
early  youth,  its  ideals,  no  longer  nourished  by  quiet 
communion  with  spirits  beautiful,  dwindled,  became 
dimmed ;  he  looked  upon  old  reserves  of  his  thought 
as  idle  sentiment,  —  "  dreams ! "  he  called  many  of 
the  things  he  had  worshipped.  He  thought  that  he 
was  waking  to  a  sense  of  real  life,  when  perhaps  he 
was  only  going"  to  sleep  to  a  part  of  life.  He  tried 
to  apply  the  wisdom  recently  gained  from  things  and 
people  about  him  in  this  noisy,  unrestful  life  to  old 
experiences, —  persons  formerly  known,  —  and  judged 
anew  many  things  once  deemed  high  were  degraded. 

There  had  been  in  his  life  a  shepherdess ;  that 
remained  one  of  the  chief  points  in  his  history.  She 
had  loved  him  so  truly,  without  knowing  of  his  power 
and  wealth, — his  power  to  give  her  power  and  wealth. 
He  laughed  a  little  at  the  curious  adventure,  but  only 
superficially:  in  his  deep  heart  that  remembrance 
had  always  power  to  move  him.  A  silent,  beautiful 
girl,  —  who  still  loved  him,  perhaps !  He  wondered, 
did  she  ?  But  that  also  only  superficially. 

He  regarded  her  differently  from  before.  He  had 
thought  of  her  as  a  creature  of  a  character  almost 
unfeatured,  —  rude,  large  perfection,  without  detail, 
without  intricacy.  Now  from  his  knowledge  of 
others  he  ventured  retrospectively  to  study  her,  to 
suppose  true  of  her  something  like  what  was  truth 


SHEPHERDS.  281 

of  the  mass.  He  realized  that  he  did  not  know  her ; 
that  she  was  built  out  of  his  imagination,  made  up 
of  attributes  that  belong  to  divinity.  He  drew  her 
from  her  simple  setting ;  he  made  history  for  her. 
A  certain  case  given,  would  she  do  this,  would  she 
do  that  ?  So  he  had  in  thought  finally  dragged  her 
from  her  heights  to  the  level  of  his  present ;  he  had 
become  reasonable,  discriminating  about  her, — in  fact, 
he  had  become  incapable  of  believing  in  his  earlier 
conception  of  her. 

A  poor  shepherdess  had  loved  him  as  a  poor  shep 
herd.  Would  she  love  the  same  man  less  as  king  ? 
Why  not  more, — with  awakened  ambition  and  vanity 
gratified  in  addition  to  tenderer  passions  ?  A  king 
must  seem  so  great  and  splendid  to  a  shepherdess ! 
How  easy  is  everything  to  a  king !  He  has  but  to 
command.  Why  should  he  suffer  for  want  of  a  thing 
not  out  of  reach  ?  And  as  the  old  way  of  thinking 
about  Elizabeth  was  weakened,  his  need  for  her 
presence  seemed  to  increase. 

He  was  less  happy  truly  than  even  before,  when 
he  had  been  so  unhappy.  Then  he  had  known  what 
it  was  that  distressed  him,  and  he  had  set  himself  to 
bearing  it;  now  he  suffered  from  a  carking  melan 
choly,  in  itself  the  affliction,  which  he  did  not  ex 
amine, —  and  find  resolve  itself  into  a  deep,  restless 
self-dissatisfaction,  survival  of  his  better  self, — but 
merely  tried  to  get  away  from.  He  was  ever  wishing 
for  something,  whatever  it  might  be,  that  would  make 
him  happy,  a  little  happier.  And  in  this  search, 
still  disappointed,  more  and  more  often  his  thought 
turned  to  Elizabeth.  For  she,  after  all,  was  the 


282  SHEPHERDS. 

being  he  loved,  the  one  whose  thought  was  best  to 
him ;  and  she  remained  the  only  one  whom  he  could 
trust  to  have  loved  him.  A  desire  to  reward  her  for 
that  went  hand  in  hand  with  his  desire  to  seek  an 
alleviation  to  his  unhappiness  in  seeing  her  again. 
He  told  himself  that  it  would  only  be  just;  he  was 
a  great  king,  and  could  richly  reward.  She  knew 
nothing  of  splendors ;  but  was  there  a  reason  to  sup 
pose  that  she  would  not  care  for  them  when  known  ? 
It  was  part  of  every  woman,  however  unformed,  to 
love  ease  and  splendor ;  he  had  seen  that  enough. 

Sometimes,  at  the  first  of  them,  he  pulled  himself 
up  in  these  thoughts  of  her  with  a  feeling  of  shame, 
and  tried  to  restore  her  to  her  summits.  But  soon 
again  that  seemed  to  him  the  fool's  part ;  and  he 
took  up  the  thread  of  his  thoughts  where  he  had 
broken  it  off. 

"  Would  she  not  conie  to  him  ? "  he  asked  at  last, 
and  was  abashed  at  the  desperate  boldness  of  the 
idea. 

But  he  became  used  to  it,  and  asked  it  again. 

"  Would  she  not  come  to  him  ? "  The  thought 
that  she  might,  that  the  world  might  so  all  be 
changed,  kept  sleep  from  his  eyes  many  an  hour. 
What  might  not  life  become  if  at  the  end  of  the 
weary  day  spent  among  these  people  who  were  none 
of  his  own,  he  could  find  her,  the  gentle,  bounteous, 
kindred  creature,  who  alone  for  some  mysterious  rea 
son  could  completely  please  him,  and  forget  at  her 
side  his  annoyances !  He  remembered  well  what 
healing  had  always  flowed  on  him  from  her  vicinity, 
how  she  could  soothe  and  lull  by  the  unconscious 


SHEPHERDS.  283 

spell  of  those  quiet  eyes.  What  inexplicable  well- 
being  he  had  always  felt  at  her  side !  No  need  for 
speech  ;  repose,  content,  as  of  a  monumental  summer- 
cloud  slowly  moving  across  the  sky,  silently  absorb 
ing  sunlight.  Would  she  refuse  him  this  ? 

He  overleaped  in  his  picturings  all  explanations, 
revelations,  for  the  sight  was  still  full  of  stabs  and 
discomforts ;  he  placed  her  at  once  in  the  palace  he 
should  adorn  for  her,  clothed  her  regally,  and  saw 
her  shine  and  bloom  among  the  women  who  should 
surround  her  to  do  her  bidding,  —  her  silence  passing 
for  pride,  her  slowness  for  dignity.  Would  she  not 
be  fair  to  behold  with  the  golden  circlet  in  her  hair, 
and  the  great  jewel  gleaming  on  her  forehead,  with 
heavy  silk  and  fur  hanging  from  her  shoulders  ?  The 
wind  from  heaven  should  not  touch  her  freely  any 
more,  so  she  would  grow  fair  as  the  lily,  her  hair 
would  become  like  burnished  bronze;  and  no  one 
who  saw  her  divine  that  she  was  a  poor  shepherdess. 

But  would  she  come  ?  When  the  thought  of  her 
being  near  him  had  become  so  dear  that  he  could 
not  give  it  up  and  bear  his  life,  the  question  of  sum 
moning  her  must  be  faced  and  studied.  His  ultimate 
thought  was  always  that  what  he  wished  she  must 
inevitably  do,  that  his  will  was  hers,  that  she  trusted 
him  entirely.  But  that  in  itself,  instead  of  giving  him 
undivided  joy,  held  a  peculiar  pang.  She  trusted 
him  to  love  her ;  perhaps  loving  to  the  simple  un 
derstood  wanting  the  best  for  the  beloved,  —  and  was 
this  that  shone  before  his  eyes,  this  that  meant,  he 
believed,  such  bliss  to  him,  the  best  for  her  ?  Her 
little  dream  of  love,  if  she  dreamed,  must  have 


284  SHEPHERDS. 

been  that  her  dear  shepherd-lad  should  come  to  her, 
and  that  they  should  live  together  in  peace  and  inno 
cence,  —  a  sight  pleasing  to  God,  —  have  all  their 
simple  joys  and  sorrows  in  common,  be  each  the  other's 
world.  Would  he  not  be  preparing  in  her  world  the 
way  to  strange  sorrows  ?  —  disturbing  that  deep 
peace,  undoing  all  that  made  her  Elizabeth  ? 

He  had  moments,  sometimes  waking,  sometimes 
sleeping,  when  his  interview  with  Elizabeth  became 
a  horror  to  him ;  when  she  looked  at  him  with  great 
eyes  in  the  depths  of  which  had  grown  a  fear  of  him, 
a  vast  unspeakable  trouble,  a  bewilderment,  —  as  if 
the  earth  had  failed  beneath  her  feet,  the  sun  proved 
untrue,  God  forgotten  her, —  and  he  wished  to  get  away 
from  her  gaze,  feeling  small.  Oppressed  by  the  an 
guish  that  crept  through  him  when  he  had  faced  such 
a  vision,  he  seemed  to  be  crying  out  to  her  :  "  Only 
forget !  only  let  all  be  as  before !  " 

But  again  he  would  think  of  her  as  taking  what 
ever  came  to  her  from  him  with  unquestioning  sub 
mission,  with  eagerness  only  to  show  him  love,  — 
more  love,  no  thought  of  herself  or  abstract  things, 
only  gratitude  to  be  with  him,  only  gladness  to  see 
his  eyes,  to  feel  his  hand.  He  could  fancy  her  joy 
ing  that  he  had  thought  to  do  as  lie  had,  not  to  leave 
her  lonely  forever  on  her  hills,  but  to  take  her  to 
him  and  show  her  all  life  might  have  for  them  both. 
He  made  her  in  that  mood  even  delight  in  her  new 
surrounding ;  he  watched  her  unfolding  appreciation 
of  things  rich  and  beautiful,  and  felt  her  happiness 
to  be  a  justification  to  him.  He  vowed  that  she 
should  never  repent  a  thing  done  for  love  of  him. 


SHEPHERDS.  285 

No  one  who  could  cast  blame  upon  her  should  be 
suffered  near.  He  would  protect  her  well. 

But  which  of  these  visions  forecast  the  future  ? 
One  presented  itself  as  often  as  the  other,  and  long 
he  could  not  choose  either  for  its  probability.  And 
dismay  followed  one,  joy  followed  the  other.  But 
sometimes  a  sort  of  exultation  in  her  mixed  with  his 
agonized  humiliation  at  the  first  vision ;  and  some 
times  a  sort  of  humiliation,  an  anguish  mixed  with 
his  exultation  in  the  second. 

Which  ?  Which  ?  He  was  haunted  by  the 
question. 

But  as  time  went,  the  second  vision,  which  in  his 
earthly  yearning  appealed  to  him  more,  became  more 
frequent ;  and  the  need  for  assuring  himself  that  his 
surmise  of  its  greater  likelihood  was  correct,  more 
imperative.  If  he  should  not  venture  to  brave  de 
feat,  he  could  never  gain  the  joy  of  triumph  ;  and 
this  triumph  seemed  to  him  every  day  more  the  best 
that  earth  contained,  the  only  thing  that  could  as 
suage  his  unrest,  quell  his  never-sleeping  yearning 
after  happiness.  And  his  days  from  the  outside  were 
becoming  so  full  of  disquiet,  of  tumult,  that  he  needed 
indeed  that  something  should  be  good  to  him ;  he 
needed  a  faithful  pillow  for  his  head  tired  every  day 
more  with  the  cares  of  a  kingdom.  For  the  Usurper 
had  gained  strength,  and  the  land  was  again  full  of 
dissent.  Once  he  could  have  resigned  his  great 
office  readily  ;  once  he  did  not  wish  to  be  king ; 
but  he  could  no  more  :  the  thirst  for  power  had 
grown  upon  him,  the  success  of  his  darling  schemes 
moreover  depended  upon  it.  He  could  not  return 


286  SHEPHERDS. 

to  be  a  shepherd,  —  that  dream  belonged  to  his  out 
grown  self.  He  must  haste  to  obtain  his  ends  before 
the  times  should  become  too  unquiet,  —  he  must  haste 
to  eujoy  while  he  might. 

A  disused  manse,  hid  in  the  depths  of  a  great  park, 
was  secretly  prepared  with  every  care  he  could  de 
vise  for  the  coming  of  his  love.  He  had  moments  of 
almost  forgetting  his  troubles  in  planning  perfection 
for  it.  Unused  as  her  eyes  were  to  magnificence,  she 
should  yet  have  the  most  splendid  dwelling  of  all ; 
he  would  not  slight  her,  but  do  her  more  honor  than 
to  any,  —  yet  secretly,  for  her  own  sake. 

And  the  times  became  more  unquiet  before  he 
could  make  up  his  mind  to  the  last  step.  And  feel 
ing  his  courage  still  unequal  to  satisfying  himself  as 
to  which  of  the  two  visions  should  work  itself  out  in 
life,  he  said  that  he  had  best  wait  until  the  turmoil 
was  over.  He  would  crush  all  his  opposers,  then  give 
himself  to  his  happiness  undisturbed.  He  could  find 
strength  unconquerable  to  hew  his  path  through 
those  who  stood  between  him  and  his  love,  —  if  be 
yond  the  struggle  lay  quiet  life  with  her. 

So  when  the  time  came  he  buckled  himself  into 
his  sable  armor  with  high  courage,  with  grim  deter 
mination  to  overcome. 

And  he  fought  several  battles,  and  he  felt  himself 
invincible,  until  the  very  moment  in  which  he  was 
vanquished. 

A  casual  steel  point  wielded  by  an  obscure  hand 
changed  the  face  of  the  earth  for  him.  At  morning 
he  had  felt  himself  the  match  for  any  giant,  and  had 


SHEPHERDS.  287 

sat  proudly  erect  on  his  war-horse,  with  flashing  eye 
and  swelling  nostril,  a  magnificent  terror.  At  night 
fall  he  lay  undistinguished,  little  to  be  feared,  half 
under  a  heap  of  other  men.  His  soul  would  not 
leave  his  body.  It  seemed  to  him  a  century  since  he 
had  dropped.  There  had  been  lapses  in  his  conscious 
ness  that  could  not  have  lasted  less  than  years.  He 
opened  his  eyes  once,  and  saw  nothing  but  blue  above 
him, — cool,  delicate,  swimming  blue;  he  seemed  to 
float  upward  and  melt  away  into  it.  Again  he  opened 
his  eyes.  He  saw  long  purple  islands  hemmed  in 
with  burning  red  rocks  in  a  golden  sea ;  they  were 
darkened,  and  he  neither  saw  nor  knew. 

Then  again  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  for  a  time 
was  in  utter  darkness,  and  wondered,  till  he  found 
gold-dust  raining  down  upon  him;  when  the  shower 
ceased,  little  fixed  points  of  gold  studded  all  above 
him.  It  came  back  to  him  like  a  forgotten  story  that 
it  was  the  firmament ;  and  he  remembered  vaguely 
things  that  had  happened  to  some  one  some  time, 
—  probably  himself.  Thank  God  that  the  din  and 
dust  were  over,  and  all  quite  still  at  last ! 

He  could  not  stir,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  stir. 
The  end  of  the  story,  —  the  short,  little,  unimportant 
story.  Amen !  Why  should  one  make  such  an  ado, 
want  so  many  things  so  much,  fight  for  them  so  hard 
with  these  tired  muscles  strained  to  breaking,  —  and 
this  the  end !  Only  water  he  wanted  now,  enough 
to  wet  lips  and  throat.  But  even  that  he  did  not 
want  much,  not  so  much  as  he  had  wanted  less  im 
portant  things,  —  his  crown  for  one.  Still,  a  little, 
just  a  little  water.  There  was  so  much  water  in  the 


288  SHEPHERDS. 

world !  The  image  of  a  well-known  spring  under 
arching  trees  rose  in  his  mind.  He  heard  it  gurgle  ; 
he  saw  it  tremble  lucid  over  the  pale  round  stones, 
and  Elizabeth  was  near  it  as  she  had  been.  She 
bent  and  drank ;  and  he  saw  himself  bending  and 
setting  his  mouth  to  it.  But  what  a  delusion !  She 
was  not  there.  That  was  long  ago,  and  he  was 
parched  as  before  drinking.  She  was  in  her  splendid 
chamber ;  she  drank  wine  from  chiselled  gold.  If  he 
could  but  get  to  her,  and  she  would  pour  him  wine 
in  the  cup  set  with  cool  gems.  If  she  would  take 
his  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  help  him  let  his  soul 
smoothly  loose,  —  his  soul  that  could  not  get  past  his 
throat.  Elizabeth !  What  would  become  of  her  in 
her  gorgeous  palace  without  him  ?  God !  would  not 
they  drive  her  forth,  now  that  she  was  not  a  great 
king's  love  any  more,  and  take  all  from  her,  and  treat 
her  with  scorn  ?  No,  no !  what  was  he  thinking  of  ? 
All  that  had  never  happened,  —  all  that  was  in  the 
future,  —  and  there  were  no  more  to-morrows  to  make 
up  a  future.  Elizabeth  would  not  even  know  that 
he  was  dead.  She  would  only  hear  perhaps  that 
the  king  had  been  slain,  and  would  go  on  waiting  for 
William  patiently  from  dawn  to  eve,  with  her  quiet 
eyes,  her  quiet  bosom.  He  would  like  to  see  her, 
to  tell  her  not  to  wait  any  more.  It  wearied  him 
to  think  of  day  after  day,  with  soul  half  out  of 
body,  hiccoughing  in  the  throat.  He  would  like  to 
be  with  her,  and  that  she  should  give  him  a  bowl 
of  goat's  milk,  as  that  last  time.  If  he  could  but  get 
to  her  now !  —  to  the  devoted  one  who  once  had  given 
up  all  to  come  to  him  !  Ah,  no !  there  was  his  brain 


SHEPHERDS.  289 

again,  with  that  insane  new  trick  of  distorting  things. 
She  had  not  come ;  she  only  would  have  coine  if  he 
had  had  time  to  implore  her.  He  had  not  had  time. 
Nay,  but  would  she  ?  The  old  tormenting  question  I 
With  its  teasing  insistence,  it  made  his  poor  soul  sick. 
In  this  extremity,  when  no  joy  could  come  to  him 
any  more  of  anything,  it  seemed  —  as  if  by  a  fore- 
glimmer  of  the  strange  new  dawn  coming  to  cast 
over  all  its  dreadful  clearness  —  an  awful  responsi 
bility  to  have  helped  another  soul  to  remorse ;  he 
wished  he  might  believe  that  if  he  had  lived  he 
would  have  tempted  no  one,— not,  above  all,  one  who 
loved  him.  He  would  wish  to  go  forth  into  the  vast, 
dim  after-world,  —  where  the  hues  and  proportions  of 
all  things  would  be  changed,  and  the  invisible,  only 
half-realized  God,  whom  one  lightly  disobeyed  while 
blood  was  hot  in  the  veins,  become  to  the  chilly  out 
cast  ghost  the  great  reality,  —  clean  at  least  of  that. 
He  wished  he  might  believe  that  she  would  have 
had  wisdom,  sainted  wisdom  to  refuse.  Was  she  not 
such  that  God  might  prompt  her  in  her  ignorance  ? 
But  alas,  alas,  he  had  grown  so  used,  having  so  ar 
dently  wished  it  true,  to  the  thought  that  she  would 
come  for  his  asking ! 

Now,  while  with  his  eyes  up  to  the  heavens  he  was 
thinking  ever  more  wauderingly  of  these  things,  suf 
fering  nothing  much,  —  scarcely  even  thirst  and  cold, 
and  those  less  and  less,  —  he  felt  himself  disturbed, 
dazzled  a  moment,  lifted.  He  felt  his  weight  pain 
fully;  he  suffered  inexpressibly,  without  power  to 
sob,  as  the  thing  he  rested  upon  moved  and  rolled 
beneath  him.  He  lay  forward  on  his  face,  with  limbs 

19 


290  SHEPHERDS. 

hanging.  He  weakly  longed  for  the  earth  to  lie  still ; 
then  he  was  lost  to  all  sensation. 

Suddenly  a  voice  saying  in  a  husky  whisper, 
"  William !  William  ! "  brought  him  back  from  very 
far.  He  opened  his  eyes ;  his  head  was  so  propped 
that  for  a  minute  he  only  saw  by  the  glimmer  of  a 
rushlight  his  own  body,  strangely  magnified,  stretch 
ing  out  before  him,  —  the  mailed  feet,  the  quartered 
tunic,  blue  and  crimson,  with  gold  dragons  in  the 
crimson  and  red  roses  in  the  blue, — a  different  red 
spread  horridly  about  the  great  rent  cleaving  the 
dragons  in  two.  He  saw  faces  peering  at  him,  fami 
liar  faces,  but  with  an  unfamiliar  look  to  them.  He 
knew  that  old  man  staring  awed  through  his  bushy 
white  eyebrows,  muttering,  "  The  King,  say  ye  ! " 

A  whisper,  "The  King!  The  Kiug!"  passed  like  a 
gust  of  wind  in  the  trees. 

Then  a  subdued  voice  said,  "  He  is  to  lie  hidden 
here  again  until  he  recover  of  his  hurt.  The  leech 
will  not  be  long  coming.  God  help  him  ! "  the  voice 
ended  choking. 

His  brain  was  clear  now,  his  eyes  sharper  than 
ever  in  health,  his  hearing  keener.  He  could  see  the 
flash  of  every  little  link  and  plate  of  his  armor  lying 
near  on  the  floor ;  he  could  distinguish  between  the 
breathings  of  the  watchers  about  him.  He  knew  it 
was  an  arm  beneath  his  neck,  a  shoulder  under  his 
cheek.  If  he  could  but  lift  his  heavy,  heavy  eyes, 
he  knew  what  face  he  should  see  above  him.  As  if 
his  struggle  to  look  up  had  been  felt,  the  face  bent 
and  looked  into  his,  while  the  breath  that  had  been 
fanning  him  stopped. 


SHEPHERDS.  291 

His  eyes  seemed  to  svviin  up  into  her  eyes,  and 
lose  themselves  there :  the  same  eyes,  the  eyes  of 
his  utmost  .love,  —  filled  with  anguish,  but  the  same 
eyes,  through  which  Heaven  made  itself  understood, — 
tender,  knowing  nothing  of  evil,  of  treason,  of  snares, 
of  troubled  love,  of  temptation,  of  repentance.  All  the 
time  since  he  had  parted  from  her  of  a  sudden  seemed 
a  dream,  a  bad  dream.  What  was  all  that  about: 
Would  she  come  to  him  ?  Would  she  not  come  to 
him  ?  What  need  to  revolve  the  question,  since 
it  was  never  to  be  asked  ?  From  the  first  it  was 
never  to  have  been  !  God  had  amply  provided.  Such 
struggles,  such  doubts,  and  all  so  simple  in  the  end  ! 
He  could  not  grieve  that  he  was  leaving  her;  for 
the  something  that  could  have  gfieved  seemed  dead 
already.  His  eyes  became  stony  upon  her  face.  He 
saw  the  brows  drawn  together  over  the  widened  eyes 
shadowily  bending  over  him.  He  could  see  nothing 
but  those  eyes,  to  his  sense  growing  larger  and  larger ; 
he  saw  terrible  tears  crowd  over  their  fixed  stare. 

He  smiled  faintly  at  the  feeling  of  relief  that  had 
passed  over  him  like  a  pleasant  wind ;  all  his  body 
relaxed  with  the  comfort  of  it.  She  saw  his  mouth 
move,  and  brought  the  eyes  still  nearer.  A  little 
gasp,  almost  like  a  laugh,  came  from  his  lips;  it  made 
itself  into  the  irrelevant  words,  showing  that  he  was 
already  past  taking  account,  "And  I  shall  never 
know  — "  Then  the  smile  died,  and  he  murmured 
more  peacefully,  "Praise  God  !" 

THE   END. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

A  QUESTION   OF  LOVE. 

of 


Translated  by  ANNIE  R.  RAMSEY,  from  the  French  of 

T.   COMBE. 

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The  scene  is  laid  in  Switzerland,  and  the  narrative  has  to  do  with  a  delight 
fully  original  family,  consisting  of  two  old  men  (one  of  them  almost  a  centenarian) ; 
a  spinster  housekeeper  of  quaint,  undemonstrative  manners  ;  an  elderly  servant, 
always  ready  to  speak  her  mind  on  the  slightest  provocation ;  and  last,  but  by  no 
means  least,  a  beautiful  girl  of  eighteen,  whose  loneliness  amid  these  surroundings, 
cut  off  from  all  companionship  with  persons  of  her  own  age,  is  forcibly  depicted. 
Pretty  little  Zoe,  with  her  shy  ways  and  her  tender  heart,  is  a  most  attractive 
character,  and  the  reader  will  not  wonder  that  Samuel,  the  honest  son  of  the 
neighboring  former,  falls  head  over  heels  in  love  with  her.  But  Samuel's  hopes  are 
doomed  to  disappointment.  All  the  characters  are  well  drawn,  and  among  them 
old  Brutus  Romanel  is  not  the  least  delightful.  His  one  ambition  is  that  he  may 
live  to  be  a  hundred,  and  he  comments  on  the  obituary  list  in  the  newspaper  with 
a  glee  that  would  be  disgusting  if  it  were  not  so  artless.  Miss  Ramsey's  transla 
tion  deserves  the  highest  praise  for  its  freedom  from  Gallic  idioms.  Here,  evi 
dently,  is  one  translator  who  believes  that  a  translation  into  English  ought  to  be 
written  in  the  English  language,  and  not  in  that  droll  Anglo-French  flatois  which 
so  often  does  duty  for  English  at  the  hands  of  the  ignorant  and  incompetent  — 
The  Beacon. 

It  is  a  clean,  sweet-smelling  story,  a  great  relief  after  the  quantities  of  realistic 
stuff  produced  by  the  modern  French  school.  The  characterization  is  excellent, 
and  the  style  and  treatment  deserve  special  commendation.  It  is  a  pretty  and 
wholesome  love  story  that  recommends  itself  specially  to  the  attention  of  the 
maidens. 


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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

A  BOOK  O'NINE  TALES, 

BY   ARLO    BATES, 

Author  of  " A  Lad's  Love"  "  Albrecht?  " Berries 
of  the  Brier"  etc. 

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Certainly  had  he  done  nothing  else  the  present  volume  should  go  far  toward 
making  him  a  permanent  reputation. 

"  His  stories  are  bright  and  clever,  but  they  have  higher  qualities  than  wit  and 
cleverness.  They  have  the  enchantments  of  the  magician,  the  pathos  and  passion 
of  the  poet.  The  plan  of  the  volume  is  ingenious.  There  are  the  '  Nine  Tales,' 
and  they  are  separated  by  eight  'Interludes.'  These  'Interludes'  are,  practi 
cally,  bright  little  social  comedies,"  says  Mrs.  Moulton  in  the  Boston  Herald. 

Mr.  Bates  writes  smoothly  and  pleasantly.  His  stories  and  sketches  make 
very  entertaining  reading. 

"  A  Book  o'  Nine  Tales,"  by  Ar!o  Bates,  whose  writing  has  been  familiar  in 
magazines  and  newspapers  for  several  years,  is  a  readable  volume  of  short  stories 
suited  to  the  light  leisure  of  summer  days  in  the  country.  There  are  really  seven 
teen  stories,  although  to  make  the  title  appropriate  Mr.  Bates  makes  every  second 
one  an  interlude.  They  are  simple,  gracefully  written,  unambitious  tales,  not 
calculated  to  move  the  emotions  more  than  will  be  comfortable  in  holiday  hours. 
They  are  short  and  interesting,  with  all  kinds  of  motives,  dealing  with  love  in 
every-day,  pretty,  tasteful  fashion.  A  weird  tale  is  "  The  Tuberose,"  which 
startles  one  a  little  and  leaves  a  great  deal  to  the  imagination.  The  book  will  be 
a  popular  seaside  and  country  volume.  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  A  Book  o'  Nine  Tales,"  by  Arlo  Bates,  who  has  become  very  popular  as  a 
writer  of  love  stories,  will  attract  much  attention  this  season  from  the  great  army 
of  readers  who  wish  for  "vacation  books."  These  nine  stories  are  capitally  told, 
and  are  arranged  in  a  novel  manner  with  interludes  between.  These  interludes 
take  the  shape  of  short  scenes,  arranged  as  if  in  a  play,  the  dialogue  sustained  by 
two  persons,  a  lady  and  gentleman,  which  give  an  opportunity  to  portray  and 
satirize  in  a  very  effective  manner  many  queer  society  customs,  superstitions,  and 
characters  familiar  to  every  one  who  mingles  with  the  world.  They  make  a  most 
amusing  array  of  characters,  that  seem  to  live,  so  true  they  are  to  human  nature. 
"  Mere  Marchette  "  is  a  gem  in  this  unusually  good  collection  of  literary  jewels. 
—  Hartford  Times. 

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publishers, 

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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


A  VIOLIN    OBLIGATO 


BY   MARGARET  CROSBY. 
i6mo.     Cloth,  price,  $1.00;  paper,  50  cents. 


A  noteworthy  dramatic  purpose,  acute  insight  into  the  recesses  of  individual 
character,  ready  command  of  the  motives  that  govern  the  relations  of  allied  or 
contradictory  natures,  a  persistent  recognition  of  the  essential  pathos  of  life  to 
those  who  look  beneath  its  surface,  and  a  versatility  of  style  that  easily  ranges 
from  grave  to  gay,  —  these,  with  an  underlying  sense  of  humor  that  now  and  then 
blossoms  out  into  ample  radiance,  are  the  traits  and  qualifications  displayed  by 
Margaret  Crosby  in  "  A  Violin  Obligate  and  Other  Stories."  The  strength  and 
scope  of  the  tales  brought  together  in  this  volume  are  indeed  remarkable;  they 
touch  on  many  phases  of  human  existence,  and  they  appeal  to  something  more 
than  a  mere  desire  for  mental  distraction.  Most  of  the  productions  included  in 
this  book  have  a  clear  ethical  purport ;  one  cannot  read  them  without  getting  new 
light  upon  personal  duty  and  realizing  the  force  of  the  decree  that  renders  every 
man  and  every  woman  responsible  for  the  influence  he  or  she  brings  to  bear  on 
others.  The  first  story,  "  A  Violin  Obligate,"  deals  with  the  fate  of  a  poor 
musician  in  whom  the  artistic  impulse  overbalanced  artistic  capability.  "  On  the 
South  Shore  "  and  "An  Islander"  have  their  scenes  laid  in  Nantucket,  a  region 
where  Miss  Crosby  is  apparently  very  much  at  home.  The  woman  whose  face  is 
her  fortune  is  the  central  figure  in  "  A  Complete  Misunderstanding,"  and  the 
way  in  which  she  wrecks  the  happiness  of  two  men  is  related  with  no  attempt  at 
melodramatic  exaggeration,  but  with  a  straightforward  vigor  that  is  always  effec 
tive.  "The  Copeland  Collection"  has  a  delightful  savor  of  romance  ;  "Last 
Chance  Gulch  "  unfolds  exciting  episodes  in  the  life  of  a  Western  mining  camp  ; 
a  liaison  between  a  high-born  youth  and  a  beautiful  gypsy  is  the  theme  of  "  A 
Mad  Englishman  "  ;  it  is  a  humble  fisherman  in  a  New  England  village  who 
turns  out  to  be  "  A  Child  of  Light ;  "  and  in  the  "  Passages  from  the  Journal  of 
a  Social  Wreck"  there  is  a  comedy  of  the  first  order.  It  is  seldom  that  one 
encounters  a  collection  of  short  stories  from  the  pen  of  a  single  writer  where  the 
interest  is  so  diversified  and  yet  so  well  sustained  as  in  this  volume  by  Miss 
Crosby.  The  talent  displayed  in  every  one  of  these  essays  in  fiction  is  incontest 
able.  They  will  take  rank  at  once  with  the  representative  work  of  the  foremost 
American  authors  in  this  important  field  of  contemporary  literature.  —  The 
Beacon. 


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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

THE  TRUTH 
ABOUT  CLEMENT  KER. 

BY  GEORGE  FLEMING, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  KISMBT,"  "MIRAGK,"  "ANDROMEDA,"  "THE  HEAD  or 
MEDUSA,"  AND  "VESTIGIA." 

One  volume.     i6mo.    Cloth.    Price,  75  cents. 


George  Fleming,  the  author  of  "  Kismet "  and  "  Mirage,"  never  disappoints 
us  in  her  literary  work.  Although  she  has  not  yet  written  a  great  novel,  all  her 
stories  are  bright,  clever,  and  readable.  "  The  Truth  about  Clement  Ker  "  is  an 
artistic  ghost  story.  It  is  interesting  from  beginning  to  end ;  it  is  a  delightful 
mixture  of  the  natural  and  the  supernatural,  of  fiction  and  of  fact.  It  is  full  of  a 
weird  mysterious  suggestiveness  which  keeps  the  reader's  imagination  on  the  alert, 
and  yet  never  develops  into  the  sensational  or  absurd.  There  is  a  harmony  about 
all  the  incidents  in  the  story  before  us,  which  is  a  strong  evidence  of  the  writer's 
literary  taste.  No  one  part  is  treated  with  any  more  realism  than  another.  But 
characters  and  incidents  find  their  places  in  a  shadowy  atmosphere  whose  very 
indistinctness  is  a  part  of  its  charm.  In  these  days  of  realism,  psychology  and 
hypnotism  must  have  their  part  in  our  ghost  stories ;  the  occult  forces  of  the  uni 
verse  must  at  least  seem  to  be  in  sympathy  with  any  attempt  to  portray  the  super 
natural.  Nor  has  the  present  writer  been  ignorant  of  this  truth.  The  book 
before  us  is  one  of  the  best  short  stories  of  the  day ;  a  brilliant  sketch,  admirably 
conceived  and  executed.  —  Transcript. 

Miss  Fletcher  introduces  into  her  new  story  psychological  and  supernatural 
elements.  It  is  especially  notable  for  the  atmosphere  of  mystery  which  envelops 
it,  and  for  the  skill  with  which  startling  incidents  are  dealt.  "The  characters 
are  strongly  drawn,  and  the  whole  book  bears  witness  to  the  closeness  of  Miss 
Fletcher's  observation  and  her  insight  into  the  real  natures  of  men  and  women," 
says  MRS.  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON. 

To  their  excellent  little  "  Handy  Library,"  which,  in  spite  of  its  extreme  youth, 
already  promises  to  attain  a  good  and  honored  old  age,  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers 
have  just  added  "  The  Truth  about  Clement  Ker."  A  novel  by  George  Fleming 
stands  in  little  need  of  newspaper  comment  to  insure  its  popularity,  and  certainly 
this  already  widely  known  story  is  no  exception.  The  straightforward  unfolding 
of  its  rather  unusual  plot,  its  capital  character  sketching,  and  above  all,  the  fresh 
ness  and  vigor  with  which  the  old  and  ever  new  subject  is  treated,  recommend  to 
the  most  jaded  novel  reader.  —  H'ashington  Capitol. 


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publishers, 

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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

A  WEEK  AWAY  FROM  TIME. 

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The  scene  of  this  novel  is  Fair  Harbor,  which,  by  the  way,  is  a  little  nook  on 
the  Buzzard's  Bay  shore  of  Cape  Cod,  in  the  town  of  Falmouth.  The  book 
deals  not  so  much  with  Cape  Cod  life  as  with  life  on  Cape  Cod,  —  the  life,  how 
ever,  of  the  summer  visitor,  of  the  seeker  after  pleasure,  not  the  life  of  us  "to  the 
manner  born."  Of  the  scenery  on  Cape  Cod,  of  the  drives  to  Barnstable  Great 
Marshes,  of  cranberry  picking,  of  the  sea,  the  author  writes  delicately  and  affec 
tionately.  We,  who  are  so  used  to  the  ordinary  sights  of  the  Cape,  will  read  with 
pleasure  of  the  beauties  that  our  too  accustomed  eyes  have  failed  to  perceive  in 
our  surroundings.  —  Provincetown  A  dvocate. 

A  week  spent  by  a  happy  party  at  "  Fair  Harbor,"  a  place  located  somewhere 
between  Falmouth  and  Woods  Holl,  "  at  the  very  tip  end  of  the  heel  of  Cape 
Cod."  Margaret  Temple,  a  young  widow,  with  a  "  supremely  fortunate  nature," 
finds  this  place,  which  is  a  "  fairy  inlet  where  the  voices  of  sirens  singing  to  your 
soul  would  bid  you  stay  and  be  at  rest"  She  purchases  "The  White  House,"  a 
quaint  old  mansion,  for  a  summer  home,  and  here  it  is  that  the  principal  action  of 
the  story  is  laid.  A  half-dozen  or  more  of  congenial  friends  gather  for  a  week's 
rest,  and  employ  the  time  in  quiet  diversions,  devoting  the  evenings  to  the  read 
ing  of  original  stories  prepared  by  members  of  the  party  in  turn.  The  party  is 
admirably  adapted  to  the  development  of  romance  ;  and  although  in  one  case  an 
athletic  young  Apollo  sails  away  with  a  broken  heart,  the  sum  total  is  so  much 
happiness  that  the  conclusion  is  very  satisfactory.  —  New  Bedford  Mercury. 

Anonymous  though  it  be,  there  are  too  many  marks  and  crosses,  tracks  and 
trails,  in  this  little  volume  for  an  observant  reader  to  remain  long  in  doubt  as  to 
birthplace  and  parentage.  The  conversations  alone  betray  Boston,  and  the  sto 
ries  the  highest  circle  of  literary  society  there.  Imitating  the  refined  tone  of  the 
company  writing,  invidious  selections  and  comparisons  are  avoided  ;  and  if  especial 
mention  is  made  of  the  exquisite  prelude,  it  is  only  in  indorsement  of  the  taste 
that  placed  it  conspicuously,  where  it  should  be,  to  arrest  the  eye  of  the  reader  and 
give  the  key-note  of  the  charming  motif  to  follow.  —  Hartford  Courant. 

The  charm  of  the  book  —  and  it  has  a  charm  —  lies  in  the  hospitable  way  in 
which  the  reader  is  allowed  to  share  the  confidences  of  this  clever  little  group. 
"  A  Week  Away  from  Time  "  enlarges  agreeably  our  list  of  friends,  and  we  find 
ourselves  half  wishing  that  the  week  were  lengthened  into  a  fortnight.  —  Boston 
Trantcript.  __^_____ 

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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

Miss  EYRE  FROM  BOSTON, 

AND    OTHERS. 

By   LOUISE  CHANDLER   MOULTON, 

Author  of  " Some  Women's  Hearts,"  "  Random  Rambles  "  "In  th<! 
Garden  of  Dreams"  "  Bed-Time  Stories,"  etc. 

One  Vol.,  lOmo,  cloth.     Price,  $1.26.     Paper  covers,  60  cts. 


THESE  stories  are  marked  with  an  exquisite  touch  throughout,  and  while 
they  belong  to  the  region  of  sentiment,  they  escape  happily  the  bogs  of  sen 
timentality.  There  are  several  which  touch  upon  the  supernatural,  and  it  is 
pleasing  to  see  with  what  taste  and  cleverness  Mrs.  Moulton  has  handled 
these  difficult  themes.  They  have  just  the  right  touch  to  hold  them  be 
tween  the  credible  and  the  impossible,  and  they  are  all  in  some  way 
suggestive  of  unexplored  regions  lying  almost  palpably  behind  them.  The 
book  is  one  to  have  at  hand  for  hours  when  one  wishes  to  be  soothed  and 
cheered,  and  to  be  inspired  with  new  life,  for  it  is  full  of  good  inspirations. 
It  is  a  book  one  would  be  glad  to  see  young  girls  read,  and  one,  too,  which 
there  is  no  doubt  that  young  girls  will  be  glad  to  read.  —  Sunday  Courier. 

THOSE  who  are  fond  of  Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton's  writings  will 
find  this  delightful  collection  of  fourteen  short  stories  no  less  enjoyable 
than  that  charming  companion  volume  of  last  year,  entitled  "  Ourselves  and 
Our  Neighbors,"  or  the  still  more  exquisite  collection  of  novelettes, 
"  Some  Women's  Hearts."  There  is  in  this  latest  volume  a  very  strong 
flavor  of  the  finest  and  most  attractive  features  of  New  England  city  and 
country  life,  but  there  are  also  bits  of  foreign  experiences  and  even  two 
ghost,  or  "  spirits,"  stories  which  give  a  spice  of  variety  to  the  contents. 
Mrs.  Moulton's  sympathies  are  only  with  that  which  is  lovable  and  uplift 
ing  in  human  nature,  and  she  has  the  rare  faculty  of  discovering  fine 
qualities  even  in  the  commonest  souls.  She  has  a  rare  insight  into  the 
depths  of  human  passion  and  emotion,  and  in  her  stories  we  never  find  other 
than  noble  and  beautiful  ideals  of  love.  The  same  sympathetic  instincts, 
delicacy  of  perception,  refinement  of  thought,  and  beauty  of  expression, 
which  characterized  so  distinctively  the  works  of  the  gifted  H.  H.,arefound 
also  in  Mrs.  Moulton's  stories,  and  upon  her  has  fallen  the  mantle  of  a 
story-teller,  which  her  late  sister  wore  so  exquisitely.  This  little  book  of 
stories,  which  is  dedicated  to  five  talented  girls  of  Boston,  is  good  not  only 
for  summer  reading,  but  for  all  the  year  round.  —  Public  Ofinion. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mailed,  post-paid,  by  the  Pub- 
ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  BOSTON. 


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